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)

Hear Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast at: https://youtu.be/gDs1gwarsx8

or read today’s true story below…

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Life, actually…

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HOW COME THIS AND THAT?

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Just when I once again thought that I had learned everything worth knowing, the clock ticks forward to remind me, “That ain’t true.”

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Not only is there more to learn each day…there’s more to learn than I’ll ever have time to learn in one lifetime.

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It’s mostly tiny things that impose themselves…but these bits and pieces of reality tend to cluster eventually. Soon, they gang up and force me to listen up.

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Let’s start small. There’s this word that I’ve only recently noticed. The word is OUTDENT.

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Yep, outdent is my new word today. It’s fascinating because it is perfectly logical and quite obvious. Which may explain why I never noticed it before.

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You and I know what INDENT means. It has been a part of my life since grammar school. I to this day still INDENT my paragraphs. Don’t you?

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Outdent is the opposite. Maybe invented by a contrarian who wanted to shake the reader’s attention span.

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Maybe not.

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Sigh.

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I have decided not to follow that endless tunnel, the labyrinth that explains everything so thoroughly (from every possible angle) that it becomes excruciatingly boring and meaningless.

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So, instead of messing with your brain and mine, I have decided to accept OUTDENT as part of my life. I have also decided not to use this word at all…until exactly the right moment. A moment that may never come.

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Let’s take a break now. Let us accept all words both meaningless and meaningful. Then, let us decide to use these words judiciously. Each time we hear a carelessly tossed unexamined word, each time we hear a hackneyed usage so poorly thought out that it has become laughable…let’s pause and come up with a simpler, more precisely communicative word that will snap crackle and pop its way into philosophical usefulness.

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There, I’ve done it. I’ve managed to use too many words to explain the importance of using fewer words.

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Writing thoughts down is wickedly funny sometimes

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© Jim Reed 2026 A.D.

Hear Jim’s Red Clay diary: https://youtu.be/tL9EHBPrAbo

or read his story below…

Life, actually…

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BIG GRIN MORNING, BIG GRIN EVENING

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My fast-food drive-through order completed via raspy speaker and dancing screen, I proceed (in an orderly manner) to wend my way via automobile to the “pay” window.

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Directing customers one by one is an elderly man sitting outside in the cold rain, plastic clothing barely protecting him from the damp chill.

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He has a big smile on his face.

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Nothing to do while I’m awaiting my turn, but to engage him.

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I roll down the window and say something like, “This is the perfect day for not coming to work.”

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His smile gets bigger and he shouts out in a husky voice, “No, man, this is great. I like working outdoors. This is a good job!”

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He means it, I can tell. And his demeanor and comment make me grin all over. The rest of the morning isn’t so bad.

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Then, last night, Liz and I are leaving the house to dine with friends. Across the street, a middle-aged pizza delivery man is pulling to the curb and gathering his goodies to bring to a neighbor’s house.

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Since I’m home from work for the evening, I wonder how he feels about this repetitive job.

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I sing out, “I guess it feels like a long time till midnight right now.” He immediately gets my meaning and breaks out in a full-face smile. “Oh, this is no problem at all. I really like this work…you know I’ve been doing it for fourteen years!”

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I reflect back his smile and congratulate him. He pauses a moment to engage.

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“I think maybe you’ve delivered to my house before,” I say.

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He says, “You mean that one?” pointing to our yellow 1906 home with white picket fence.

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“Yep, that’s us,” I reply.

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“Oh, yeah, I’ve delivered to y’all plenty of times,” he boasts proudly.

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Now I recognize him and realize he’s right.

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“Well, we really appreciate you…and we’ll see you at our house next time!”

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He waves a pleasant wave and proceeds with his mission.

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And I decide to reduce my bickering about what a hard day I’ve had, next time I arrive home.

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Hey, look, it’s really raining outside today—did you notice?

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And do you notice how beautiful it is?

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This will be a good day to come alive

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© Jim Reed 2026 A.D.

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

or read his story below…

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Life, actually…

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ROUSTABOUT WEAKLING

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Jimmy Three sneaks into the family living room to check his appearance in the cracked full-length mirror next to the doorway. Jimmy lives at this moment back in 1952, when the entire life ahead of him will extend at least another bunch of decades.

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As an eleven-year-old going on twelve, Jimmy is wrestling with nature. Nature is pounding him with new feelings, fanciful insights, reality-laden fantasies, imaginary realities.

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Right now, Jimmy Three cannot see himself objectively in the wavy mirror. His vision is clouded by random ideas scattered in his path. Ideas of what grown-guys-to-be should look like, ideas of whether he will soon become a heroically handsome dude or a wimpy 98-pound weakling.

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He flexes his meager muscles, turning in the light. Not so good an image. Okay, I’ll probably be the last teammate selected for today’s playground games. Maybe I’ll get lucky and be the next-to-last selection, should my scrawny pal Billy show up.

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Jimmy Three should be in despair about his future prospects, but it turns out that he eventually does find hope and adventure in his own way. He is happiest when huddling over a favorite book. He is content to sketch and write random stories of his own. He is able to entertain himself, a talent he later learns that many kids never experience.

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Through the years Jimmy Three morphs his life into what is tailored for his own strengths and flaws. Intensely observing others of his species he comes to know that people are immensely interesting. He also learns that each person seems to be on track to becoming whatever they once were. Each starts out dreaming dreamy dreams about things that will never be. Those who finally come to terms with themselves eventually discard those peculiar ideas that never bore fruit.

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Jimmy Three and his fellow star-scattered roustabouts find ways to navigate the world using their own individualized roadmaps, not the pre-ordained roadmaps structured by dogma and prescribed behavior and rule makers and bullyboys.

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Maybe these roustabouts who avoid and disdain all ironclad dictums, will bump into things more often. Maybe they will measure their successes by refusing to measure their successes.  Maybe they won’t turn out to be rich and famous and helpless. Maybe they will find their laughing places of bliss by simply taking one last look at a mirror and thereafter building their own wings and soaring their own migrations.

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Maybe being a 98-pound-weakling is a safe way to hide out from the improvised shaming devices that unhappy wanderers seek to toss my way, Jimmy Three tells himself

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© Jim Reed 2026 A.D.

Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast at https://youtu.be/ip1CEeB286A

or read his story below…

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Life, actually…

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BUMPER CARS AND ROLLER COASTERS AND LIFE GOES ON

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Blue or pink metallic balloons softly dance around one another above a village mail box. A freshly born life is celebrated with vim and vigor.

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Nearby, somberly garbed neighbors gaze at a carved box as it rests beneath remembrance flowers in a patched green field, with only silent granite witnesses remaining later to stand guard.

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Red carpet welcomings and thoughtful goodbyes are never far apart.

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Let’s call these first and last things Bookends to life. Ceremonial displays. Attention must be paid and all that.

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Tokens and trinkets abound between these bookends. After the long dance, tokens and trinkets remain, reminders of people we once knew.

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The tokens and trinkets may not be important in the schemelessness of things, but they do have purpose. Their presence jars the memory, jags us back to sweet recollection.

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Once we send these silly props to Goodwill, we risk dispatching fond memory into faded vagueness. We risk waking up one day with nothing to remind us that these special beings ever existed.

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So, bits and pieces can outlast people themselves. They can be passed down the generations. They can be our visual genealogies. They can be touched and caressed and hidden nearby, or displayed up front.

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Maybe a flattened metallic balloon in the sock drawer will emerge one day, maybe someone will suddenly smile and recall. Maybe a dried flower from the granite field will be found tucked into a favorite book. Maybe it will strike a note of familiarity in those of us who welcome the indentured images that skulk about in our minds, awaiting reinstallment.

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We begin to understand the meaning of bumper cars and roller coasters. Very few words are needed to comprehend the absolute thrill of unpredictable existence. We bump and bounce and scream in joy and howl in fright. It is one heck of a journey.

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Together, let us experience the journey and hold close the best of our memories.

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It’s what we cling to before coming up against the right-hand bookend

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© Jim Reed 2026 A.D.