Catch Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary on youtube: https://youtu.be/MbmmdGl8eJk

or read his transcript:

Life, Actually

 THE ROAR OF THE DOPE FIZZ

 I am way back in time again, back to the 1940s and 1950s. Back when First Things Ever happen almost every day.

If you have a minute, I have a true tale to share.

I am sitting on the concrete base that supports a gasoline pump in front of my grandfather’s general store. This is a brief break from my chores. I watch traffic whiz by on the old Birmingham highway in this village called Peterson, Alabama.

This is the only week in my life when I have the privilege of working inside the store. It is a great honor to be chosen for this job—ask my cousins.

Earlier, I snap to attention behind the main sales counter as a rough edged coal miner squeaks open the front screen door, the door that sports a bright yellow metal sign depicting Little Miss Sunbeam beaming at you as she bites into a slice of white Sunbeam Bread.

The miner looks at me and grumps, “Gimme a Dope.”

I freeze in place, afraid to admit that I have no idea what “Gimme a Dope” means. I begin to sputter, but Uncle Brandon is within earshot and saves me. He stops his installation of new shelving made from cut-up Coca Cola sign metal and saunters over to one of the soft drink coolers.

The miner and I stare at each other and glance at Uncle Brandon, who deftly fetches a Coca Cola from the box, shakes off the water, clinks the top off, using the static opener, and hands over the thick bottle. The miner accepts the drink, drops a shiny nickel into my palm, smiles “Thanks” and heads for Miss Sunbeam.

It turns out that Cokes at one time in the distant past contained legal cocaine. Once banned, the cocaine disappeared but the nickname remains.

So now, during my first break from clerking, I sit and watch the traffic, watch Uncle Brandon pump gas. And I am ready to make the day better.

Just now, I reach deep into the cooler, fish out a Grapico, and exit the store. As I sit, I glug down the fizzy grape-flavored fluid and refresh my dry gullet. Life is good.

I am already thinking about the next break, should I get one. I plan to grab a Dope, fill it with half a packet of Tom’s Toasted Peanuts, and prepare to experience that salty, liquid, crunchy carbonation that only such a mixture can provide.

And I look forward to my grandfather’s placid smile as, late in the day, he will serve me a hand-double-dipped ice cream cone that only roadside store clerks like me can properly enjoy.

As I lie abed in the guest room of my grandparents’ home that night, I think about my lessons for the day. I’ve learned what good customer service is like, what unspoken kindnesses can occur in a small town, what family, real family, feels like, how hard work can be good and satisfying.

And I learned what a Dope was and still is. 

To this day, I remain a Dope fiend, taking a slug of morning caffeine from a Coke container…and occasionally, when nobody’s looking, I drop some salted peanuts into the bubbly brew and recall what life was like before it became overlayered with the weight of heavier times

© Jim Reed 2021 A.D.

WEBSITE

Weekly Podcast: REDCLAYDIARY

Catch Jim’s podcast: 

https://youtu.be/mbAJR4mxwpo

or read the transcript below…

Life, Actually…

THE FIRST AND BEST FRIENDS I EVER HAD

A page from my lifelong Red Clay Diary.

Filled with remembrances that never go away, that stay true and vivid and loyal.

All the way from a Deep South Village childhood to right now…

Monk and Deebie were my imaginary friends when I was a child.

I use the term “imaginary friends” as shorthand so you’ll know approximately what I’m talking about.

The truth is, Monk and Deebie were in no way imaginary. As any adult who ever had such companions will tell you, imaginary friends are very real, very solid, very three-dimensional and quite alive.

If you’ve ever had the privilege of living close to an imaginary friend, you know what I’m talking about. If you have never for a moment enjoyed the presence of an imaginary friend, then I can’t imagine how you got through childhood’s enormous obstacles in one piece.

Monk and Deebie lived with me in a world all their own, a world exactly contiguous to yours and mine.

This is not exactly a parallel universe, because both the universe of Monk and Deebie and the universe of you and me exist simultaneously in the same place. And, yes, two worlds can and do exist in the same location at the same moment, as any child can tell you.

Monk and Deebie were a fully adult couple, a middle-aged husband and wife who lived peacefully and with comfortable dignity in a small home that I could occupy at any time. They often joined my family for meals, and I often joined them in their home for meals and camaraderie.

Being the luckiest child alive, I was granted the most gentle and understanding real-life family you can imagine. My mother and father and sister took my childhood seriously. They never made fun of Monk and Deebie. They accepted me and my only friends. They set places at our little garage apartment kitchen table for this couple they could only see through my eyes.

My family and Monk and Deebie nurtured and supported me. As I said, I was the luckiest child alive.

The great thing about Monk and Deebie was they were exactly my size, even though they were grownups.

Monk always wore a nicely-tailored brown, double-breasted suit and tie and smoked a large cigar. Deebie was neatly attired in a 1940′s Sunday school dress complete with apron for working around their little kitchen.

One day, Monk and Deebie disappeared.

As a child full of energy and imagination and challenges at hand, I did not know they had packed up and moved on to support the next three-year-old shy kid who needed them. Later, I imagined that Monk and Deebie traveled around, helping one kid till things looked safe and stable, then leaving to help another…

Ever since childhood, now and then, I think about Monk and Deebie, my very first personal friends, friends who never let me down, never criticized me. Friends who to this day accept me the way I was and the way I am.

To this day, I am certain that if they ever decide to re-appear and visit me they will still be accepting and loving and as comfortably situated in my heart as they always were in their tiny living room when I was three of age.

I’ve discussed the concept of imaginary friends with adults who had them around when they were kids, and I’ve noticed that their imaginary friends were every bit as important to them as mine were to me. I don’t understand any of this at all. But you know, I’m not sure I want to understand or probe too deeply.

After all, what if Monk and Deebie return and find that I no longer believe in them?

What an embarrassment that would be.

Here’s hoping that you and Monk and Deebie are comfortable having a fine time remembering the good and disenfranchising the bad and just generally having a happy thought intrude itself on your existence once in a while in this real and imaginary life

© Jim Reed 2021 A.D.

WEBSITE

TIMEWASTERS LLC

 Tired of snapping alert, suddenly finding you’ve been frittering away precious time?

 Feeling guilty about not completing tasks, just because you zoned out or got distracted by something unproductive?

Timewasters is here to help.

Timewasters…wasting time on your behalf…so that you can do what needs to be done.

File away your guilt and shame. Allow Timewasters to take over the useless activities that get in the way…freeing you up to get on with it.

While you are slaving away, Timewasters will take care of all the unimportant things…like snacking, scrolling, channel-hopping, scratching, obsessing, mulling, whining while texting, gossiping, shaming, belittling, bolstering, tweeting, snapchatting, binging, ordering online products you’ll never use, returning online products you’ll never use…

Engage Timewasters…

So that you can now concentrate on completing the job, cleaning up around here, straightening things, catching up on friends, actually reading a book…while Timewasters is busy doing insignificant things you no longer linger over, like plucking hairs you’ve never noticed till now, watching one sports activity played repeatedly from dozens of angles in both slow motion and real time…comparison-pricing items you’ll never buy, comforting annoying people who take up too much time, face-timing with acquaintances you detest but are afraid to confront, sucking up to superiors who do nothing but brush you off.

Timewasters! We are here for you!

Call us  whenever you grow tired of aimlessness. Whenever you wish to feel worthwhile once more.

Timewasters LLC

Lolling about, just for you

© Jim Reed 2021 A.D.

WEBSITE

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

or read his transcript below:

PATCHWORK SNUGGLE

There are times that I am four years old. The first time I feel four is the time I actually am four, so many years ago. But there are many other times when I feel four again, times that continue to this day.

Just a few minutes ago, I was four again. Four, but with decades of life and experience laid on. That means I am having four-year-old thoughts and ancient grown-up thoughts all at the same time. Jumbled together, they make a profound stew.

One of those times:

The early morning of winter is so cold I wish I could snuggle forever beneath quilts and blankets and comforters. The between-time, the moments when wakefulness arises and sleep creeps away to wherever sleep creeps away to…this between time is precious. Part of what makes it precious is that I am learning that it cannot last uninterrupted.

My four-year-old self and my generations-old self wonder about life in the same way, but time and age enable me to express it all using post-childhood words.

Empathy is something encapsulated within me, something only I can feel, that no-one else knows I am feeling. At surprisingly unpredictable times, empathy magically extends itself, spreading kindnesses and kindly behavior. When empathy happens, comfort and goodwill abound. All seems right, all seems in place.

Other times, empathy sullenly hides and refuses to appear on demand, a coward ducking behind barriers of fear and trembling, confusion and disorientation.

Life is a puzzle at best. Life is so good now and then that the future feels possible. During the good periods, I try to get things done. I cling to the idea that things could be like this forever, if only…

But, just to keep me on my toes, uncertainty waits impatiently to find entrance to a less-sure self.

I lie here in my familiar bed beneath familiar covers, in a familiar room. For this instant, all is well.

In another instant, I will hop to it. I will get ready to work and play at the same time. I will brace myself against impending sorrow, open myself up to laughter and camaraderie, look for the good things that come from bad things, anticipate the bad things so that I can make them bearable.

In other words, like any ancient four-year-old, I will make do. I will try to cherish and remember the sweetness that presents itself now and then. I will somehow muddle through the day.

I will look forward to the next snuggle

© Jim Reed 2021 A.D.

WEBSITE

Catch Jim’s podcast at: https://youtu.be/hVeiYvF8T-Q

or read his original transcript below:

Life, actually…

ADVENTURES IN PHONELAND

IN OLDEN DAYS…this is how we make phone calls:

1. Lift phone from cradle.

2. Dial number.

3. Phone at other end of call rings.

4. If no-one answers, hang up and try again later.

5. If called person answers, conversation begins.

IN TIMES LIKE THESE…this is how we make phone calls:

1. Retrieve palm-sized phone from bag or purse or pocket.

2. Enter some kind of code.

3. Search for number of party about to be called.

4. Punch automated number.

5. After phone rings, listen to recorded message.

6. When beep occurs, leave message.

7. If impatient, text a thumb-animated message.

8. Disconnect and wait.

TODAY, CALL MY BOOKSTORE, USING OLD-TIME METHOD OR CURRENT METHOD…

1. Tapping fingers impatiently, wait for phone to ring three times.

2. Listen to message: “Happy memories from Reed Books and the Museum of Fond Memories. If you’re calling during business hours, this recording means I’m down the hall or on the other line. Please leave a message and I’ll call back. We’re in the shop Tuesdays through Saturdays. Phone and email and internet orders are available, along with curbside store pickup. All charge cards and paypal available, gift cards, too. And we really want to help you. Y’all come!” BEEP.

3. Leave your message. No texting available.

4. Should you not leave a message, I will not know you called, since I live in pre-caller-ID-land.

IN DAYS OF YORE, I NEVER HAVE TO RETRIEVE YOUR MESSAGE, SINCE NO MESSAGE MACHINE EXISTS. I just wait for you to call again.

IN TODAY’S WORLD, I must obtain your recorded message in order to find out what’s what.

1. I dial a ten-digit number

2.  A robotic voice asks me to enter area code and telephone number, then something called a PIN.

3. Voice chastises, “I‘m sorry, the number you entered does not match our records. If you have forgotten your number…”

4. I override rest of message and enter correct PIN thingy. It was nice of the robot to apologize.

5. Robotgirl shouts out, “Welcome to AT&T voice mail. You have one new voice message and no saved voice messages.” (The voice is answering a question I did not ask.)

5. Voice continues, “Main menu. To get your messages press one.”

6. I comply. After a beep, I’m told, “You have one voice message received today at 2 zero 9 pm from number 205-555-5555.” Why do I need to know the time and the number? I just want your message.

7. I listen to your message at last. I make notes.

8. Further robotic instructions: “To repeat, press 4.” Please, don’t repeat. I’m done.

9. I punch “7″ in order to hear that lovely voice again, “Erasing message.” Then, “You have no more messages.” OK, I get it. I have no more messages because I just erased them. Robot is beginning to sound condescending. 

10. I realize I am having an emotional reaction to an emotionless machine. Isolation has gone on too long. I need human contact.

Arrgh!

Did I spell “arrgh” correctly?

Now I’m talking to myself

© Jim Reed 2021 A.D.

WEBSITE

Listen to Jim’s podcast: http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/macysghostclerksinvade.mp3

or read his transcript below: 

Here is a five-years-ago page from my Deep South Red Clay Diary. It seems worthy of re-visitation. Maybe you, like me, hate to go shopping for new clothing. On the other hand, if you are a happy shopaholic, you probably at least know somebody as grumpy as I, hopelessly unstylish and fashionably unconscious. 

Ghost Clerks Invade the Aching Feet Treatment Center

I used to be an unreconstructed creature of habit, but now that I am of a certain advanced age, a new realization has come upon me.

Now my habits have habits.

And speaking of habits, even the clothes I don each day look something like nuns’ habits—-dark blazer over dark shirt above dark trousers anchored by dark shoes. I don’t have a particularly wise and witty reason for wearing black all the time. It just seems easier to match everything, easier to minimize my blobby girth. I don’t have to expend energy and time figuring out what I will wear today.

Anyhow, eventually even I—the guy who pays no attention to clothing—realize that my jacket is looking frayed and feeling poorly. So I make the long-dreaded trek to Macy’s to see whether the chain still carries a clone of the coat I’ve worn to a frazzle.

My fantasy is simple: I won’t even have to try on anything. I’ll just walk briskly to the Men’s Department, show the lining label to a clerk, and say, “I’d like to order two more of these, please.”

But you know and I know that nothing is ever as simple as it is. Everything is more complicated than it is. Everything costs more than it does.

I enter Macy’s and suddenly feel as if I’m in a haunted-house movie. Well-dressed clerks are scattered about, each maintaining a post in a specific department, each customerless, each staring straight ahead with pleasantness frozen on their faces just in case a supervisor wanders by for a pleasant-expression inspection.

What daydreams may come to these clerks, what soreness of foot and aching of back syndromes do they endure?

After a lifetime of encountering clerks from every walk of life, after decades of chatting with them and listening carefully to what they say aloud to one another, I have learned this: No matter how pleasant or dismissive or distracted they look, each one is glancing at the clock in anticipation of the next recess, the lunch break, the shift-ending hour. Each is hoping to be somewhere else as soon as possible.

The male clerk destined to assist me is pleasant, business-like, and robotic. I’ve never yet had a salesperson say, “Gee, that looks like crap on you. Don’t buy it—people will laugh.”

The clerk knows this silent truth, I know this to be so, thus I have to make my own judgement about whether I should purchase this jacket or that jacket. I’m always fortunate when Liz is able to accompany me and provide some feedback. Left up to me, I would buy the first thing I see (and I often do that), just to escape Robotics Land.

I make a selection, in the process learning that men’s clothing departments no longer offer alterations. I have to take my three-inches-too-long-sleeved blazer to another store that specializes in tailoring. The entire process takes an hour, not counting the return visit I will make to pick up the altered item.

See? As Liz Reed always says, “Everything takes longer than it does.”

In my 3 a.m. wide-awake insomniac meanderings, I add to my TO DO LIST: Send each Macy’s clerk a gift packet containing Epsom Salts, dark chocolate, aspirin and a thank-you note reading, “Be of good cheer. We’ve all been there, and you will get through this.”

The clerks won’t know what the heck that means, but at least I’ll feel better

© Jim Reed 2021 A.D.

WEBSITE

Catch Jim’s podcast: https://youtu.be/-C-2WaROSZA

or read his transcript below:

DODGING THOSE GERMY GERMS

The book browser leans forward, just inches from my face, and tells me all about the books he would love to find in the shop. Normally an enthusiastic exchange like this is pleasurable. But today it is frightening.

I suddenly realize that each time he speaks, he lowers his COVID mask so that I can hear him clearly. Each time he pauses to listen, he returns the mask to its secure position. I back away and hide behind a poster, as if I have something important to do. I have not yet learned how to diplomatically suggest that he keep his face covered. He is oblivious to the problem.

Another browser likes to tell delightful stories, but I have no idea what he’s saying because my attention is riveted. As he speaks, his mask slowly descends, revealing lower nose, then nostrils, then upper lip, then entire mouth, until nothing is safe but his double chin. He is unaware.

One customer walks briskly in, completely maskless, so focused that she only later realizes what she’s done. Embarressed, she covers face with hand and quickly gropes for a mask.

As time goes by, I become braver and more outspoken. I call attention to my concern by saying things like:

“Oops. Did you forget your mask?”

“Uh…if you don’t have a mask, we have a supply behind the counter.”

“I’m trying to avoid endangering my family, so that’s why I wear this mask.”

Most of the time, people respond without being asked, simply by noticing that I’m all masked up. Often, they apologize.

At the beginning of this pandemic, a rough-hewn family of seven enters the shop, no sign of masks.  This time, I just stay behind the counter, since no-one else is present. It is obvious that they are not there to buy books–just need to wander about, then leave. They don’t seem to be from around here. My cowardly behavior makes me vow never to remain silent again.

But on the other hand, I never want to be that old guy who yells, “Put on your mask!” or “Get off my lawn!”

Times are different now. I can see those danged COVID germs scattering themselves everywhere. Ducking doesn’t help. Wishing is useless. Posting notices creates a negative atmosphere. So, I just pleasantly and firmly–sometimes with humor–help folks cover up. Some, I have to instruct, since they don’t know that a bare nose is part of the problem.

Way back in the 1940s and 50s, when Nature and I were learning to negotiate the terms of my future life, I heard about germs at school and at home. For a while I thought that I could actually see the critters. So, when washing up, I pretended I was sending them to germ heaven, down the drain to a land they would understand.

Maybe staying ahead of germs is what got me from way back then to right now.

Or maybe I’m just plain lucky.

Mainly, I don’t want to be part of a preventable problem to others, so my life as a masked bookdealer is becoming a thing now.

It could be that masks will be all the fashion rage for years to come

© 2021 A.D. by Jim Reed

Catch Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast: https://youtu.be/yUpXQVBTcuA

or read the transcript below:

THE SECRET LIFE OF OLD BOOKS

The seventy-year-old greeting card spins itself out of an old book I am opening. It falls gracefully to the floor of the shop. I bend to pick it up, forgetting for a moment the volume from which it escapes.

It’s a pink and lavender card all prettied up with a sleeping kitten, a vase of spring flowers, and spritely accents. It reads, HAPPY BIRTHDAY Daughter DEAR.

I can’t help but open this evocative little keepsake. My interest in the book wanes. What could possibly be inside this personally-addressed communique?

The printed verse is  perfect for the time in which it materializes. “Just as you’ve fulfilled our dreams, And made them all come true, We hope your future, Daughter, dear, Will do the same for you!”

Clearly signed in ink, “Love Mother (over).”

“Over” means that seventy years ago people actually wrote extended notes inside cards, on the blank page you find by unfolding it completely.

Here, in bold cursive script, is this particular message:

“Dear Virginia! Sugar I didn’t forget your Birthday but it is kinda hard for me to do things that I need to get around to. I am sending a Xmas pkg. I hope you want open it I dont know your new address but hope you get it O.K. I know you all are enjoying your new home. I hope you all have a merry Xmas. Write to me–I love you–Mother.”

I re-fold the card to its original form. I regard it as a tiny treasure long forgotten and squirreled away within the pages of a forgotten novel. I wonder what happened to the well-loved daughter who received it. I hope that her remaining friends and family recall her and her mom fondly. I hope somebody someday finds this cheerful little love note inside this old book. I hope it will endure as a marker.

As I acquire books of olde for my library, for my bookshop, I am careful to fan all pages for notes and keepsakes and notations and secret messages.

I should be satisfied enough with simply preserving and enjoying each book that finds its way to me. But in the process of examination and cherishing, what lies within becomes important, too.

Judging each book by its cover hardly even begins the treasure hunt that awaits me

© 2021 A.D. by Jim Reed

Catch Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary on youtube: https://youtu.be/GjUhMuK-ldc

or read the actual diary below:

MEAGER GRUEL VS HIGH MORAL FIBER CEREAL

Sometimes I think that who I am today is a result of all those thousands of childhood breakfasts that boosted all those thousands of childhood mornings.

“Rise and shine, rise and shine!” That’s my mom peeking through the morning bedroom door at zombielike me aslumber on the top bunk. Brother Ronny below me wriggles awake, younger and more eager to embrace the morning.

I drop to the cool hardwood floor, dodging sunlight until my eyes adjust to the brightness of yet another day.

Ronny darts to the bathroom first while I search dresser drawers for clean trousers. I rub my eyes awake and head for the kitchen, the metallic creak of the hallway floor furnace grating croaking a Hello! Ouch! to bare feet.

The tiny kitchen already exudes the fragrances of the day, since Dad has already risen with the sun, broken his fast, and headed off to work, tin lunchbox atow.

Mom’s singsong voice creates the best part of the morning, “Let a little sunshine in, let a little sunshine in…open wide the windows, open wide the doors, and let a little sunshine in!”

Two cereal boxes beckon from the dining room table. Raisin Bran and Wheaties initiate my education at the moment. Perry’s Pride Homogenized Pasteurized milk bottles bring  dried flakes to life. The wrinkled raisins puff up, and reading and eating begin.

I take in the super-sports-hero blurbs before me, simultaneously searching for sugar cubes. Buttered grits are making their way to plastic place mats while sister Barbara joins the three of us with a pan of sinfully luring bacon.

Crunch and munch and slurp are accompanied by toasted light bread, and apple jelly is sure to follow.

Eating breakfast is just not eating breakfast without all those informative ads.

I avidly read milk bottle, jelly jar label, margarine wrapper, place mat inspirational slogan. Marveling over mysterious phrases, making a note to look up words seen for the first time, I am informing myself in the comfort of a loving home, learning my lessons without stern teacher overlords, getting excited just by bouncing about inside my own young imagination.

The kitchen table textbooks shamelessly promote themselves, making even federally-mandated contents disclosure an adventure.

Today, as an adult in these times, I still wonder why some people see mealtime as a meager gruel ordeal while others equate high fiber breakfast fare with high moral fiber.

As a writer of words, as a storyteller of tales, I have learned never to assume that what I am thinking or feeling or fearing or enjoying is beyond important enough to share. Each moment from childhood to geezerhood seems too precious to squander.

The fun I experience while sharing my tiny anecdotes with you is worth expressing. I hope that you are encouraged to make sure the split seconds of your life are cherished while the cherishing is still worth cherishing.

And I wish you many high moral fiber mornings

© 2021 A.D. by Jim Reed

Catch Jim’s podcast:  https://youtu.be/e9KrmDJ5uvE

or read his transcript:

JUST THE WRONG WORD AT JUST THE RIGHT TIME

I am idly scrawling, penknife-sharpened number-two pencil tightly clutched.

Even at this early age—a few generations back in time— I am an aimless writer of words. I note things I notice in this long-ago childhood southern village.

Even though my home back then is a modest bungalow, my parents tightly budgeted and careful about things like providing ample food and shelter for us kids, I am never in need of paper and pencil.

My masterly thoughts pour forth onto the backs of discarded family utility bills, advertising flyers, cancelled household checks, envelopes, whatever is handy. I live in a home where filling time with doodling and drawing and composing and reading is approved behavior.

Words and phrases are appearing on the page beneath my hunched-over frame. “I declare.” “I swan!” “I swanee.” “Sho’nuff.”

I like these words because they explain themselves, no dictionary needed. When Aunt Ann laughingly says “I declare!” it is clear that she is expressing amazement at something she just heard. Amazement and maybe a bit of disapproval.

When Uncle Brandon says “I swanee!” I know he’s basically substituting a phrase for something more colorful. Because he is around us little ones, his generation does not allow him to use profanity. He saves that for hunting trips with his buddies.

Every time Uncle Pat shouts “Sho’nuff!” I suppose that he is stifling a more dramatic phrase.

I make notes to verify all this someday when I become a full-grown scholar.

When someone says “Yikes!” it is immediately clear that amazement and humor are being conjoined.

When Mother says, “This ain’t the way you do that!” with a smile on her face, she is purposely using slang to make a point. She corrects us when we say ain’t, because she wants us to understand that her hero, Will Rogers, only used this word to elicit chuckles. In his newspaper columns, he employed both correct and incorrect expressions to make a point…and to let us know he knew better.

So, just sitting here bent over scraps of paper, getting ready to re-sharpen a number two pencil, I have already, this early in the day, learned a few things:

Different expressions, different dialects, can be tailored for appropriate audiences.

Surprisingly ungrammatical words become grammatical for a moment, mainly for effect.

A sense of humor can be used to teach harmless lessons, to gain attention, to force an unexpected laugh.

Some decades upon decades later, when I am setting down these thoughts for you, I smile at myself and realize that the world is still open for examination and subject to kindly criticisms and gentle corrections.

I may not be a world-famous writer, but my satisfaction comes from the momentary break in the day I bring to readers who could certainly use it in times like these.

I declare, it ain’t so bad, is it

© 2021 A.D. by Jim Reed