Listen to Jim’s podcast: https://youtu.be/021bu0seOSY

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Life, actually…

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CALL ME ALABAMA!

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A DOWN-SOUTH ANTHEM

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Alabama is a state of mind.

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No, I take that back.

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Alabama is your state of mind.

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Alabama is my state of mind.

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Look at the map.

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There is no logical border.

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If logic prevailed, Alabama would be panhandled-with-care to the Gulf and barely miss the Mississippi River to the west and stick-toed in the Atlantic to the east.

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The Alabama state of my mind is…

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Alabama is a truncated

Arbitrarily-bordered

Mixture of Appalachian

Foothills and Gulf beaches

And Tennessean

Valleys and Southern

Pines and black dirt

Flatlands and red

Clay banks and

Human-formed mounds

And dinosaur-chalked

Banks and ‘gator

Swamps and

Cricks and meandering-barged rivers

And angel-haired falls and bluebird

Nests and mosquito bites

And chigger itches and ancient

Warrior-ghosts and

Dirt-poor moonshiners

And proud farmers and

Vegetable-stand pickups

And blue highways

And washboard roads

And scorching sun and

Humid rashes and

Fields endless fields

And full-moon-activated

Cemeteries and

Tombstone graveyards and

Midwife shacks and

Breezeways and clapboards

And wild blackberries and lazy

Cows cud-ding and calves

Cuddling and hay bales and

Barn lofts and suckling puppies

And strutting blue roosters

And water moccasins

And synchronized

Twilight fireflies and glistening

Stars so close you can

Touch them.

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Alabama in my state of mind is

Far-off 3:00 A.M. train

Whistles and howling dogs

And skittish deer and roadside

Tire carcasses and skulking

Buzzards and dearly departed

Armadillos and skunk-fragranced

Air blended with sweet honeysuckle and smothered

With kudzu and life-saving

Breezes interspersed with

Gasping-for-air heat.

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Alabama in my state of mind is

At her best

When you close your eyes

And remember how

Good she was when you

Were young, how wise

She became as you yourself

Wised up and how good she

Can be whenever she

Re-claims her fairness

Of spirit, whenever she

Gets back to

The earth, gets back

Down to earth,

Remembers her hard-working

Closely-tied families.

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In my state-of-Alabama-mind,

Alabama is at her best

When she’s all potential and

Hope and strut…at her

Best when she remembers

Her humble beginnings…

At her best when she

Gives up the chanting

And pays attention to

The babies and the infirm and the

Poor…at her best when

She recalls how wonderful

It is to be paid tender attention to,

To be well-paid with tender attention

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Y’all come visit. Stay as long as you like.

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See how easily we embrace you

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How lavishly we feed you

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How generously we share stories with one another

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See what we are really like

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© Jim Reed 2026 A.D.

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Listen to Jim’s podcast: https://youtu.be/021bu0seOSY

Hear Jim’s Red Clay Diary podcast:  https://youtu.be/t0nw3IksojE

or

Read his story below… 

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Life, actually…

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GOOD NIGHT STACK OF BOOKS

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Good night stack of bedside books holding firm your promise to levitate my dreams.

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Good night volumes of verse waiting for a chance to teach me how to be a better denizen of the world.

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Good night dreary tomes that make me try harder to wade chin deep through the infinite choices you lay out for my inspection.

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Good night adventures and antics and plots and twists that just cannot wait to bring me out of my doldrums and into fresh light.

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Good night books brimful of mushy ideas and aha! epiphanies and sad but loving passings.

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Good night corner-folded pages that show me where I left off and where I resume.

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Good night books topped off with nightmares and daymares and scary beginnings and happy endings.

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Good night books with texture and heft and fragrance and hints of previous readers.

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Good night books that accompany me through infancy and into youth and onward to smartly sassy adulthood and heavily responsible middle age.

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Good night books that will chaperone me into elderliness and pleasant-dream continuances.

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Good night to you, the next foster parent who will adopt and take sweet care of these living bindings and pages that meant so much to all who loved them

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast:  https://youtu.be/NQ9TX3MTXRo

or read the story below…

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Life, actually…

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COMFORT AND JOY AND A LIFELONG SCAR

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Dr. Ruby Tyler is leaning over me while I lie flat on my back in her examination room.

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This is way back in time in Tuscaloosa when I am a kid who just fell out of a tree, a kid who at this moment is Dr. Tyler’s sole emergency patient.

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I have never been an emergency patient before, so fear and trembling infuse my soul. I am hysterical and refrain from gazing at the gape in my right arm. I am certain that all the blood  in my body will exit onto the sheets. I am sure to die an embarrassing death after my playmates-witnessed fall from grace.

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Dr. Tyler doesn’t blink. She calmly glances at the wound. She places her hand on my shoulder and calms me down. I can stop screaming now. All will be well. Comfort and peace sooth me and the rest of the morning goes pretty well.

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Dr. Tyler stitches me up, no anesthetic employed back then, and I dissolve into the role of helpless victim and happily healing patient.

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There are perks to being wounded in public. The little girl across the street brings me flowers, fellow playground buddies delight in recounting events leading up to my accident, neighbors check my wound and count the stitches.

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I can milk this incident for a few days by dramatically displaying an arm resting in its red bandanna sling.

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Like everything else in life, other anecdotes reveal themselves. Bob Crutchfield reminds me that I landed upon him, not on the red clay dirt. Lenny Fulmer notes that I also scraped my back against the barbed wire fence next to Bob Crutchfield. Brother Ronny notes that the wooden planks forming a crude ladder on the tree trunk actually broke, causing my rapid descent. It’s a group participation thing, this episode of mine.

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Anyhow, to this day I sport a scar that is no longer visible among the surrounding wrinkles and sags and discolorations that have become my ancient body.

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But I do get something useful out of this split second in time. I learn it only takes a calming gesture to settle down a frightened creature. I learn that every victim is part of a posse of people who have their own individual mini-traumas. I learn that life is not all about me myself and I.

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I am a participant in your pain just as you are involved with mine. I can choose to ignore this fact or I can become part of the healing and nurturing team. I get that.

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On my better days I actually rise above whines and complaints. I actually try to become part of a solution. I transform into the role of splint or bandage or clumsy comforter. Or just a friend close by who is comrade to a crisis

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s Red Clay Diary podcast: https://youtu.be/sPxoeN3MEt4

or read his story below…

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Life, actually…

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TO DRIVE A NAIL

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Jimmy Three is a good dawdler.

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After all, at age five, lacking the vaguely envisioned future burdens of adulthood, Jimmy Three has a great deal of dawdling time.

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This morning’s first dawdle is all about nails and hammers and claws and ouchies.

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At the end of the front yard sidewalk, where concrete gutter meets grainy asphalt, Jimmy Three bends to pick up a sheeny metal object. A bent-thus-discarded nail that glints in the sunlight. He rotates the nail between thumb and forefinger, holds it close to the eye, examines it at arm’s length, wonders how it got where it wound up.

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What to do with a bent nail on a dewy morning. It’s not like Jimmy Three to throw anything away. Mimicking his mother’s habits, he pockets the nail that will later join other possibly useful discarded objects into an old Hav-A-Tampa cigar box gifted by his grandfather.

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Oh the treasures within that box. But that will be the subject of a future story.

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Right now, Jimmy Three races into his home, digs under the bunk bed, retrieves a small green metal toolbox, squeaks it open, finds a couple of unbent nails and a tiny hammer. He is inspired to do something useful with hammer and nails, something no-one else will find significant.

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He occupies himself attempting to drive a nail into a scrapped two-by-four. Grasping the wooden handle up near the weighty iron top, he timidly taps the flanged head and gets little result. Swinging the hammer higher so that gravity and sinew can bring it down harder, he manages to bend the nail. It flies off and hides beneath the bunk.

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Jimmy is not frustrated, because he has other nails. But he is also aware that calmly assessing the situation will go a long way toward saving future nails. His father once showed him the proper way to get the most out of a hammer. He finally recalls this: Grasp the handle much lower, away from the claw, thus increasing the power of the downward swing.

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He holds the nail so that it is vertical while the pointed tip is touching the wood. With the confidence of youth and the help of gravity and the assistance of young muscle, Jimmy Three joyfully brings full force to the nail head.

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No reason to explain that Jimmy’s thumb ouchy takes a few minutes out of his project. But he knows that to complain is to risk having unwanted drama and perhaps hammer-banning.

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The next time is magic. Using all his hastily garnered wisdom, the nail is pounded neatly into the two-by-four. For a second he considers creating an exhibit of wood and nail to show off his prowess to playmates. The pounding in his sore thumb reminds him to calm down.

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The world is relieved when J3 abandons the project and runs away to the butterfly tree to see who has shown up this morning.

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There is so much to do during dawdling time

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Click here to hear Jim’s 3-minute Red Diary: https://youtu.be/SFvunLJBTEc 

or read his story  below:

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Life, actually…

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BEST ADVICE ARCHIVED FOR LATER CONSIDERATION

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My high school science teacher Mrs. Ingram once gave me some good advice.

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“Never put anything smaller than your elbow in your ear.”

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This happened a way long time ago. You know, back before the Earth was round.

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I have studiously followed Mrs. Ingram’s advice all these years. I am proud to say I’ve not once been taken to the ER with something big stuck in my ear.

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As to all the other wise and useful advice I have received from scores of well-meaning people, I’m not proud to report that I have blithely ignored and rejected most of it.

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This not the fault of all those who generously took the time to mind my own business. This is merely a stubborn lifelong resistance I have to all attempts to change my behavior.

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Don’t get me wrong. Had I followed even an iota of this advice I’d probably be healthier, richer, wiser, kinder…

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But my contrarian nature generally holds me back from following other people’s guidelines.

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As I navigate these many years of living my own life my own way, I do notice a mellowing. I actually accept advice more frequently these days.

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For instance, someone once quipped, “Never drive under ten miles an hour on an interstate highway.” That sounds solid enough. I’ll consider it.

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I’ll stop trying to be cute at this point.

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I truly appreciate all the life lessons I have learned and  continue to follow, the tutorials that keep me suspiring and aspiring and perspiring.

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I appreciate the dozens of good examples set by family and acquaintances, many demonstrations of how to do this without suffering horrifying consequences, when to do the right thing, when not to do the wrong thing.

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The thing that annoys me is the fact that there are so many ways those who encounter me have helped me…and I have seldom thanked them! How come I am becoming sensitive and kindly so far down the road?

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I should have thanked these unpaid advisors. I could have hugged them more. I might have listened more. I wish I could look each of them in the eye and really experience them. I wish I could tell them what they continue to mean to me.

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Since these denizens of life’s better moments are long gone away, all I can do is follow my own advice and hope that you who are paying attention can take something good from these words.

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The best advice I can take from this day forth is my own advice: Do the good deed now. There will never be another good deed moment exactly like this good deed moment.

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Eat the chocolate chip cookie right away.

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Thank and appreciate all sincere advisors in the moment. Regardless of whether the advice is helpful or useless, remember to appreciate the intent.

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If it is well-meant it is worthy of thanks.

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And do spread Mrs. Ingram’s words when you can. Each ear saved causes the world to listen a little better

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast at https://youtu.be/1l6CNGVp66w

or read his story below…

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Life, actually…

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THERE GOES WHO I WAS

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Roy Rogers is chasing down those Gopher Creek gunmen. Shiny pistol drawn, vertical-lined frown of intensity showing focus and determination, golden steed Trigger pounding the trail. The stalking is about to bear fruit…

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I turn the page of my Whitman pictorial cover book, ready to read the fate of Roy and the pursued bandits.

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Oops! The brittle pulpy paper has broken loose. The next two pages are missing. Arrggh! Will I ever learn what comes next? I wonder.

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I’m sitting on the floor of the bedroom I share with brother Ronny. The tattered book on my lap awaits the next suspenseful moment. What will I do now? Will I angrily discard the rest of the volume?

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The book cannot speak aloud, nor can it defend itself. Only words on thick pages can forward the plot.

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I scour the room for the absentee book parts. I retrieve a walking stick and scrape beneath the bottom of the bunk bed. I riffle through old comic books and paperbacks, peek beneath socks and shirts. Nothing.

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I sigh deeply. My compulsion to read each and every word in every book dominates the moment. My to-do list now includes going to the county library in search of the Gopher Creek caper. I am philosophical. I weigh other options.

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Wait—what if I write down what I imagine happens next in Roy’s adventure? I could become co-author! This is an original thought. It excites me. It provides a peek into my imagination. In a split second, I become a writer-to-be.

Distractions suddenly take me away from these fleeting thoughts. Playmates call out, refrigerated snacks beckon, tangled shoelaces dominate. I don’t return to these authorship yearnings for some time. But the idea endures.

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Eons later, while I compose these thoughts, I wonder whether the Gopher Creek Roy Rogers Trigger episode planted some kind of seed. I am now a writer, so this is possible, isn’t it?

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Or maybe I just needed something to occupy my mind while spending yet another day being a human

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/bHcLz2r0OTo

and read his true story below…

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Life, actually…

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STALKING THE CELERY AND DRAFTING THE WILL

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I am in the Way Back of my early life, a kid sitting on a front step blithely munching on a celery stalk.

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This special moment exists all by itself. There is no just-a-few-minutes-ago thought, there is no dread of the next few minutes, there are no responsibilities looming.

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There is just me, there is just myself and one celery stalk.

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Will life ever get purer or sweeter?

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Maybe you had a childhood like mine. Maybe you had no childhood at all. Just in case you didn’t, I thought I would throw a few lines your way to help both of us refresh and reboot something called kidhood.

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As this humid morning settles over me I stare at the celery and prepare for the next loud crispy crunch. It is mystifying and satisfying. The chewed bits disappear into my innards, a few greenish strings catch between teeth and have to be extracted.

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I wonder whether celery feels pain. If I find out it does indeed feel the pain of being eaten, will I commence to starve to death rather than cause any more trouble? If celery and all living things have inner lives does this make us cannibals?

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Fortunately for a young and excited mind such as mine, a dozen other inquiring ideas overlay this frightening aha! moment. I am easily distracted by the next split second—a thirsty mosquito intervenes and provides a welcome distraction.

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I rub my palms dry, examine the wrinkles that appear and disappear as fingers flex. I squint at the sun and wait for the first playmate to appear on the lawn.

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Later that day, supper and chores having been appeased, I lie abed and think about the large carrot waiting for me in the refrigerator. The thoughts of pain and puzzlement do not reappear any time soon.

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Life is so good. I am in no rush to grow up. I hold on to my simplicity as long as possible. I revisit it to this day, each time I feel burdened and overloaded with the maddening varieties that the accidental universe presents to me.

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Celery is one of a thousand escapes I employ in order to hold tight to life.

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I tell myself that we the stubborn shall inherit the Earth. The stubborn among us who stave off the power of overseers, the power of those who missed childhood by that much.

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Even if we the stubborn do not inherit the Earth, we will definitely contest the will

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

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