Life, actually…

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NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO TOSS AND TURN

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In these saggy baggy times it seems that only sleepy heads find relief from the no-see-um irritants of daily life.

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Getting a good night’s sleep is my only defense against the plethora of things I cannot possibly alter or influence.

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Put it to rest, I tell myself.

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So, tonight I have yet another opportunity to gird myself against wakeful challenges…by hoping for a nice snooze.

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Say Hello to my little playbook:

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Ritual is helpful. Most nights at beddy-by time I shut things down downstairs before ascending to bedland, humming shards of an old novelty song, “I climbed up the door, opened the stairs, said my pajamas and put on my prayers…I put out the clock and wound the cat up tight, and all because you kissed me good-night.”

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The lyrics were funny when I was a kid. Thankfully, I know better than to abuse a cat or climb a door or toss out a perfectly good clock. But a good-night kiss from Liz is always welcome.

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Floss and toothpaste and jammies take the ritual all the way to bed and bedclothes and snuggling in. Then, being of unsound bookie-ness, I lie on my side and read from whatever is on the piled-high nightstand.

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Within arm’s reach are stacks of books and periodicals that do not fit the norm of mainstream reading. I need a page or three of something offbeat or provocative in order to jar my mind away from the cares of the day.

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Tonight, it’s a volume of essays by Robert Louis Stevenson. A surprisingly refreshing flow of words includes, “The greater part of poetry is about the stars; and very justly, for they are themselves the most classical of poets.” That’s a thought good enough to cast me among the heavens and lure me into my sleepytime journey.

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I save the page, close the book, rest it atop a precarious tower, snap off the lamp, listen to Liz’s breathing, and drift away to childhood.

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The words to a nighttime lullaby appear from somewhere. The long-ago voice of comedian Judy Canova lulls me to sleep with her closing song, “Go to sleepy, little baby…go to sleepy, little baby. When you awake you’ll patty-patty cake…and ride a shiny little pony…”

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Such fond memories stay with me and tap me on the shoulder at the oddest times, reminding me that the only quest worth my precious time is the daily quest for that shiny little pony

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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WATCHING YOU WHILE YOU WATCH ME WATCHING YOU

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Several generations ago, before your time but during my time, I was actually a small child. Hard to believe, isn’t it?

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Because I, like you, began life as a child, my evolution toward adulthood was an adventure. An adventure worth examining along the way, worthy of examination many years later—like right now, for instance.

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As a young’un, I learned everything the hard way. Each experience was a first-time happening. Each moment was exciting. Each time I closed my eyes, then opened them, I saw something fresh and new.

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I did a lot of pondering back then.

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I punch the rear view button of my time machine. I select Five Years Old.

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And here I am, back in my childhood hometown.

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I’m getting dressed for the day, layering myself with protective clothing, when I realize someone is secretly watching me getting dressed. I look at my bare feet, and there is the culprit. Superman is staring straight at me from the front cover of a comic book.

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This Superman needs to remain safely inside his pages. He doesn’t need to observe my personal life, except when he’s keeping enemies at bay.

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I turn the comic face-down and continue grooming. I’m safe in my room and Superman is safely napping inside the pages I will be turning shortly as I observe his exploits. I always feel safe when Superman is nearby.

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I’m later breaking my fast at the kitchen counter, munching on toast and reading the labels of a cereal box and a Pet Milk container. Suddenly, I realize that the can’s label is illustrated with a picture of a cow peeking out from inside a can of Pet Milk.

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Hmm…

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Looking closer, I see that the picture of the canned cow depicts a picture of a canned cow. I squint to see how many pictures of canned cows inside pictures of canned cows there might be, each one smaller than the one before.

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This infinitude of cows disappearing into atom-sized illustrations is more than I can grasp. Where does it end?

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Years from now, when I read Richard Matheson’s novel The Shrinking Man, I come to understand that the infinite diminishing of anything cannot be dealt with logically, even when I become an adult.

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The Shrinking Man steadily shrinks into infinity, never stopping. Where is he now?

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Maybe he’s enjoying life with the Pet Milk cow, knowing that all is well and safe, particularly while Superman stands guard

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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ONE AHA! MOMENT IN A DEEP SOUTH HOMETOWN

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Clarion is as clarion does…

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A brilliant sunny crystal clear breathable clarion day today, a day to drive to work and reflect upon the wonders of paradox, a day to make me feel guilty for working but work I must because I know I’ll feel guilty not doing it, a day to forget that just recently I was driving along depressed while listening to the squarunch squarunch squarunch of my faulty windshield wipers imperfectly rubbing away rain mixed with aerial scum, a day to remember that life, in all its awesome and frightening variety, can be awful and inspiring at the same moment, that one brief inhalation of beauty, one quick and silent second, can bring unexpected joy in the midst of almost any bad situation.

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If I get just enough of these nice moments of inspiration strung along to separate the cruddy and seemingly insufferable times, I feel I can keep on keeping on, I can continue making one step fit right in front of the previous step, I can take a moment to reflect upon the inner core of of me that is still a bright and happy child, pat it on the head and encourage it to stick around yet another day because I know that tomorrow is going to bring lots of stuff that will require comic relief and joyful distraction to break it down into its manageable components

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–from Jim Reed’s 1998 memoir, DAD’S TWEED COAT Small Wisdoms Hidden Comforts Unexpected Joys

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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THE SANDPAPER RAZOR MEETS THE BARBER CHAIR KID

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I’m riding the Theo A Kochs automatic barber chair, watching the barber foot-pump his metal and leather instrument higher so that he can get at my neck, the neck of eight-year-old me, back in the 1950s South. He has already draped my shoulders and torso in a checkered cloth to keep the hairs he’s about to trim from hiding under my clothes and making me all itchy.

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The barber is efficiently cutting away while continuing his running conversations with various customers who sit in a long row of chairs facing the Theo A Kochs chair. They talk of fishing and hunting and politics and street repair while thumbing through current issues of magazines like Argosy, Esquire, Field and Stream, Collier’s, Look, Life, Saturday Evening Post.

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The shop smells of old cologne and talcum and working man sweat and spittoons.

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I squirm impatiently while the barber plies his trade, his scissors and electric trimmer flashing in the sunbeams that cause the rotating storefront candy cane pole to cast its shadow across my shoes. I gaze at my shoes because I’m required to lower my head while lather is applied to my neck.

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Looking downward, I read and re-read the Theo A Kochs brand name embossed in nickel plated sheen between my feet. The freshly-stropped straight razor makes sandpaper sounds. I cringe, waiting for the barber’s hand to slip. It never does. But it might.

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What is that after-shave perfume the barber laves on my neck? What is the name of the talcum powder he dusts on my neck to ease the fresh-shave sting? Why is he shaving the neck of a pre-beard kid? I don’t understand the ritual of shave and talcum and fragrance and hair tonic, but I do know that I will not feel like I’ve really had a haircut unless I walk away smelling like something other than a real eight-year-old lad.

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The barber dramatically takes away the checkered cloth the way Dracula might swirl his cape.

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I take my feet off the Theo A Kochs brand. The shoeshine man swish-brooms the back of my shirt in an elegant gesture of manners and politeness. I walk past the rotating candy cane pole and onto the sunny streets of my Deep South village, a brand-new kid ready to face a brand-new afternoon.

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I don’t know whether the magazine-thumbing grownups ever tip the barber, though they do tip the shiner of shoes. Kids are not expected to tip, so I get to spend my extra dime across the street at Woolworth for the best bag of popcorn I will ever eat…until the next haircut

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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A DOZEN SWEETENED MOMENTS

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This morning is a morning of waiting.

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The cube-shaped room in which I wait is filled with wobbly tables, preacher-hardened chairs, a walled ever-blaring television set, a picture window overlooking a herd of automotive vehicles that seem to be dreading fates tiny and large.

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The cube room also sports a coffee maker ledge, real and artificial sweeteners, plastic stirrers, Styrofoam containers, textured paper napkins, a very large vending machine filled with all the things nobody should ever eat, all the things everybody eats anyhow.

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Oh, did I mention that the cube room is also peopled with people?

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I sit facing away from the television overlord. I can’t help but watch the waiting people, much more interesting and engaging than streamed ads and shouting interviewers.

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A slow-moving man and woman enter and search for suitable seating, their politeness and manners boldly contrasting with others in the room who are attention-locked by oblong plastic-and-metal-palmed devices.

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The device people glance blankly at me, quickly resume their internal journeys. The slow-moving couple settles in, each scanning the room for signs of life.

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An employee enters and heads for the coffee maker and says to all of us, “Anybody want a cup of coffee?” as in, “I’m willing to prepare a cup for you before I pour my own.”

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“Uh, I think that sounds good,” the woman says, a gentle smile and elegant Southern accent accompanying her voice. Her response to the question is not automatic and obligatory, but carefully considered, weighed and uttered.

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I feel comforted, hearing and seeing what we of old might call well-mannered graciousness.

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“There’s sugar and cream,” the employee notes.

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We all hear the gurgling, inhale the soothing fragrance of warming brew. And, despite aggressive messages issuing from the screen, despite impending verdicts that will eventually enter through the door, despite the dismissive attentions of lock stepped non-engagers, we share soft moments of pleasured sipping.

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There must be fifty ways to view moments like this, most of them silent and barely noticed. But these are the moments I recall so vividly, later in the day.

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This Deep South village contains so much good will, if only I take the time to cherish it.

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I imagine that there are thousands of villages like this throughout the world, where other people recognize each other and for a brief span ignore the irrepressible need for conflict that jumps at us now and then.

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I hope I will experience a dozen moments of kindness today. I hope you will, too

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 © Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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THINGS BETTER LEFT UNSEEN

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A puff of blue smoke appears from around the corner of a village structure.

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Like Native American signals of yore, this puff announces an upcoming event. An instant later, Bobby J. appears mid another cloud of smoke.

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He heads my way, his exhalations as powerful as his inhalations.

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Bobby J. is this moment’s Wyatt Earp. He struts along, cigarette in one hand, unholstered phone in the other, yelling into  his palm and sucking in as much of his portable stormcloud as possible.

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Bobby J. is primed for action, his close-shaved head and confused tuft of beard framed by a black tee-shirt emblazened with a Harley slogan. He lopes along, enclosed in an emotional tirade aimed at the phone, his angered breathing fiercely sucking in and spewing words and smoke.

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I stand in Bobby J.’s way on the cracked sidewalk, so I quickly move aside, pretending to be oblivious to his drama. I sweep leaves and butts toward the beckoning gutter.

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He chugs past me and turns the next corner. Burnt tobacco and echoed invectives dissipate.

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Did I want to witness this? Doesn’t matter, does it? Things happen and fade away.

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Bobby J. is his own story imprisoned within his own fate. But he is suddenly immortalized this instant, a living image embedded in this story.

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Will future readers recognize him by my description? Will his cameo appearance in front of the bookstore roll with life’s credits at the end of the show?

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Will Bobby J. ever realize how unique and special he is? Will those who love or hate him find anything remarkable about him? Will there ever be an accounting of the good he has done, the bad he has done, the kindnesses he dispensed, the bumbling-along image he projects?

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This is not for me to know. Whatever will be will be.

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All I know is that I did what any artist might do. I paid attention to him when there was no-one else around to feel his moment.

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There you have it. I guess this page is his gift unopened

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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 HIDE YOUR THINGS LOCK YOUR CAR TAKE YOUR KEYS

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 HIDE YOUR THINGS

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LOCK YOUR CAR

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TAKE YOUR KEYS

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There’s that metallic sign again. I see it now and then, here in this Deep South village. A reminder like a note your Mom once packed in your school-bound lunch. HIDE YOUR MILK MONEY. Love, Mom.

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I feel certain that those who dreamed up the slogan, got it approved through all the proper channels, had it manufactured, distributed and installed…I feel certain that they feel some pride in instructing us civilians to be cautious and mindful.

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So, obey your Mom and your police department.  HIDE YOUR THINGS LOCK YOUR CAR TAKE YOUR KEYS SECURE YOUR MILK MONEY.

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What else would police and moms have us do, assuming they had our attention for more than three seconds?

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CHAIN YOUR BIKE, PULL YOUR PANTS UP OVER YOUR REAR CLEAVAGE, HIDE YOUR NOSE BEHIND YOUR MASK, DON’T DO STUPID STUFF, etc.

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I ponder the notion that Mom’s hand-penciled note and the big village sign have the same intent. Just to help us appreciate this fact, another sign might read WE ARE CONCERNED ABOUT YOUR WELFARE, SO PAY ATTENTION.

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Or, more aggressively, DO AS WE TELL YOU OR THERE WILL BE HECK TO PAY.

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Shall I be grateful or fearful?

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I’ll have to think about that.

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Almost any kindly thought can be transmogrified, once processed by a string of people who don’t know the original intent. Almost any idea can become oblique or fuzzy once unfettered.

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So, I must remember:

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LOCK YOUR KEYS TAKE YOUR THINGS HIDE YOUR CAR

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Uh, did I get that right?

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Oh, no

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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LOST MARBLES, WISE EGGS AND THOUGHTFUL PENNIES

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Today is not book-caretaking day at my little shop of wonders. Usually I spend time re-shelving and tidying up when I enter this cathedral of books.

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But now and then I open the big loudly-squeaking front door and begin my chores by checking on the supply of wondrous surprises and random wisdoms.

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This is not your stereotypical bookstore, you know.

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First off, I fetch a cylindrical key, the one that unlocks an old orange ironclad vending machine. Into this orange vending machine I insert a dozen freshly-packed plastic eggs. Each of these plastic eggs contains a number of surprises and oddities, the kind you don’t find just anywhere these days.

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Once arranged, the eggs are loaded and locked, awaiting curious customers and kids both overgrown and under-old.

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Shoppers who head straight for the big orange vending machine bring their quarters and try to imagine what they will come up with, once the metallic crank is turned.

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Today’s first vended egg contains: a set of black-dotted white dice, a pink-streaked seashell, one rose-colored self-adhesive monkey sticker, an old military-insignia pin, a Happy Camper sticker, one very large red marble…want me to go on? It is amazing how much joy one can pack into one small egg.

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Also within the egg are: a plastic leaf, a set of yellow Top-Value trading stamps from ages ago, a fortune-cookie-type strip of paper with one of my wisely witless thoughts (“Filling time is anything we do or do not do.”), and one small marble, a companion to the big one.

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Each egg is packed with different joys. You take your random pick.

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Cheap thrills, guaranteed to puzzle or entertain, for the down payment of two shiny quarters.

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A few feet away, a clear jar is filled with small wisdoms, hidden comforts, unexpected joys. These scraps of paper float about, covering over the very small plastic eggs you can obtain for a measly twenty-five cents each (just Two Bits, if you are old enough to know this slang term).

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Inside each egg in the big jar: two pennies, one small marble and one strip of paper with yet another of my wise, sometimes silly, original sayings.

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The idea is, The two pennies represent my two cents’ worth. The marble indicates that I have not lost them all, just yet. The strip of paper is evidence that even the most random of thoughts can be preserved and meaningful if you take the extra time…

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There are other surprises here and there throughout the Museum of Fond Memories and Reed Books, some easily findable, some secreted so that only the most observant will see them.

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This is a way of spreading my love for words and books and child-like fun. It’s my little world and I love it when you enter and “get” it by cruising around and remaining open to the concept of laughter and giggles, swirled and stirred among books and books and books.

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Hey, I’m just an elderly dude sharing my memories with those who need a break from the harshness that life can sometimes heap upon us.

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I mean you no harm

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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eToday is the the day that I head straight for the orange metal vending machines near the front door.

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Life, actually…

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WHAT REMAINS IN RUSTY TINS AND CLAY POTS?

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The book browser stands petite, just inches away from shelves of volumes jam-packed with words as yet unread.

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She shades her eyes from the overhead light, the better to scan titles up close. Each book is carefully considered, based on clarity of print, boldness of design, brightness of jacket cover, heft in the unshading hand…and a dozen other factors both conscious and un-.

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Here she smiles in place, delighted by the overwhelming possibilities before her.

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She touches each spine, awaiting a cue from the author, a beckoning from the arrangement of words, a clue hidden behind a worn spine.

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She removes a book that calls out to her, opening it to the first page first verse first line, “Wake! For the Sun, who scatter’d into flight The Stars before him from the Field of Night, Drives Night along with them from Heav’n, and strikes The Sultan’s Turret with a Shaft of Light.”

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She blinks in wonder, re-reading this arrangement of words until they begin to make sense. Where would this book take me once I take this book? She muses, closing the book and placing it next to her heart, held snugly under an arm.

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She will re-consider this potential purchase after going through a dozen additional selections.

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One more first-chapter first-page first-line, “It was a quiet morning, the town covered over with darkness and at ease in bed. Summer gathered in the weather, the wind had the proper touch, the breathing of the world was long and warm and slow.”

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What happens next in this story, she wonders, adding it to her growing stack.

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Journeying homeward later, her new foundlings on the passenger seat next to her, she wonders about the magical array of words each book arranges. She wonders about the authors and who they once were—one, an eleventh-century poet, the other a twentieth-century optimal behaviorist, each spouting forth a unique and loving version of life on Earth.

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Then, her thoughts go deeper: What good are words archived on a shelf if no-one reads them? Where will the words wind up? What happens to the archives? What endures?

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If I don’t rescue and appreciate them, will they even matter?

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She pats the front cover of the topmost book, anxious to get comfy in her favorite chair, spending an evening browsing lives once lived, lives that will be resuscitated as she savors them.

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She thinks, is what remains all a matter of chance? Should we continue preserving the words regardless of their singular fates? Are we merely hoping that, if enough words are preserved, some of them will actually survive as incomplete scrolls hidden in clay pots and rusted cookie tins?

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Tonight, for the first time ever in her young life, she will not only read…she will also begin writing down her thoughts and feelings.

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Eventually, her writings may wind up in the hands of a browser or an archaeologist, depending upon fate and circumstance, depending upon the actions of lone booklovers who hope that sometime, somewhere, somewhen, others may find delight in similar rusty discoveries

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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