Catch Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast: https://jimreedbooks.com/podcast

or read the transcript below:

HENRY THE FROG AWAITS AN EVENING BREEZE

A patch of shade and a momentary breeze. Obtaining these phenomena both at the same time is my only goal, my only quest at this very moment.

This very moment being a Summer morning some uncountable decades ago in the Deep South village of childhood.

I’m sitting on wooden steps leading to the Reed Family’s back door, scratching at the latest red bug bite on a bare knee. August heat is upon the yard, chasing away Henry the Frog (he’ll reappear in the cool of the evening). Other critters are doing the best they can under the circumstances. Even the nearby anthill is quiet. I guess the ants are in their underland fanning each other with tiny leaves.

I scan the close horizon for signs of things to notice. Yep, even at this memorable age I am an Observer taking note of life a giblet at a time.

I watch and listen.

Next-door grownups are chatting, oblivious to listeners-in.

The wife pauses after a burst of enthusiastic holding forth to check on husbandly reaction, to see whether he understands her meanings, to determine what his response might be. I stare and observe like a small anthropologist.

The husband wants to couch his words in non-confrontive ways. He’d prefer not to talk at all, but even at this age, I am aware that sometimes one has to do what one has to do to maintain harmony.

The husband pauses during his raised-car-hood mechanical fiddling, takes a deep breath, instructs his mouth to smile and his eyes to become alert.

The wife repeats her lively rant, this time in a less aggressive manner, once she realizes that the husband is actually paying attention.

The back-and-forth ends pleasantly. The wife returns to her tiny vegetable garden, the husband dives under the hood, the ambient temperature lowers a couple of degrees.

And today, this very day, this right now moment, I am all grown up, grown old and withered, and am suddenly recalling an aha! moment from early youth.

The aged Me smiles in sweet recollection. The tiny young red-bugged Me broods like the little professor that I am, the little professor that I will always be.

Old Me and long-ago Me sit quietly on the back steps and enjoy each other’s presence.

Then, we each go our separate ways, ready for the adventures we will surely experience on these parallel overheated days. We await the relief of evening and the reappearance of Henry the Frog and his pals, the fireflies and mosquitoes that will outlive us all

 © Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

Listen to Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/tapdancingonshagcarpeting.mp3

or read his story below:

TAP DANCING ON SHAG CARPETING

“You have heard the sound of two hands clapping, but have you heard the sound of three hands clapping?”

Thoughts like this slither into my mind during the short periods between customers at the bookstore.

“She was aged to imperfection.”

You know, inexplicable thoughts like this—the kinds of thoughts that seem important at the time but ultimately are tossed into the napkin-note sticky-note file for later contemplation.

“You can only observe one-tenth of an iceberg lettuce salad.”

Where did that one come from?

The front door chimes and I am lifted from my navel contemplation. I arise from behind the counter and smile to the customer, “Good morning! How can I help you today?”

A woman of indeterminate age frowns, holds up a shiny book by two fingers, as if it is contaminated and ready for recycling. “I want to return this book for a refund,” she announces.

My policy is ironclad. I always refund, no questions asked. Or at least no questions required. But just for future reference, I say, “OK. Is there anything wrong with the book?”

She sneers, looks into the air—not at me—and says, “I just don’t like the way it ended. I want my money back.”

I am at a loss for words. I look for words, but they seem to have fallen out of my head and rolled under something, out of sight.

“Er, sorry,” I sputter. I determine that this particular customer has made up her mind and is well beyond literary conversation or conversion. I also determine that she will probably never return. I think, too, that she has read very few books in her life and has no idea how a real bookstore operates. I am happy to refund her money in hopes that she will soon disappear and be replaced by appreciative browsers.

She stuffs the refund into her copious purse and grumbles to herself all the way to the door, her experiment with reading over and done with.

I re-shelve the book, return to my storely duties and my lone thoughts.

“She is as pure as the driven sludge.”

Where did that thought come from?

I wonder whether there are other would-be customers like her. Maybe, to paraphrase my Brother, Tim, she is part of a That Customer franchise, people who haunt old bookstores with unlikely demands, then dematerialize.

“I’m looking for a book by GO-eeth,” one customer says. It takes a while to decipher Goethe from his request. I gladly provide him with Goethe.

“I’m looking for poem,” a gruff character states. When I lead him to the poetry section, he stares blankly, arms limp, as if I’ve invited him to tap dance on shag carpeting.

“No, I’m looking for POEM,” he repeats. It takes some time to figure out that he is searching for pornography, or PORN, as it is called these days. Dang, we are fresh out of porn, I say to myself.

I gently let him down and he leaves—again, someone who will never return.

Some folks seem to be searching for Manifest Density. If there is no such thing, there ought to be.

Me, I’m just drifting with my thoughts on a normal day at the least normal bookstore you’ll ever visit, the most enjoyable bookstore you will ever visit, a bookstore stripped bare of unsavory endings and GO-eeth and porn

© Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

Catch Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast:  https://youtu.be/9AZCoJYdGUg

or read his transcript below: 

ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE RAGING IMAGINATION

Wild imaginings jotted down this very morning in my Deep South Red Clay Diary

Being incarcerated by a pandemic makes my brain rattle about at warp speed.

Every small happening assumes gigantic stature.

Maybe because the small happenings are all we have some days.

Exactly what day is it, anyhow?

For instance…

It’s a quarter to three, there’s no-one in the dental clinic parking lot but just me and me.

I’m waiting for an hour and fifteen minutes to see a dentist who may or may not spend another hour and a half doing things to me in a dental chair, things for which he will be reimbursed.

Not used to lingering, I do just about anything to avoid situations in which I must float helpless at the whim of strangers.

This means that little ol’ spoiled entitled me is whining while there are people lined up worldwide waiting for hours, days, weeks, simply hoping for food or medical care or escape…people who are on hold for 2 1/2 days on the phone attempting to complete a form for funds they will possibly never receive.

I fidget while the world is aflame. I feel guilty for fretting.

At times like this I search for solace by staring intensely at normally unstareable things.

I sit here in my automobile in the clinic parking lot, motor running, AC on, cold cola at hand, clumsily dealing with my fear of doctors, ranting to myself about how good life will be when I can get back to living it.

Is this pandemic or neurosis? Maybe both.

I focus straight ahead at the building before me. Venetian blinds–which are closed, of course–cover large windows originally made to allow view and sunshine to enter, allow those trapped indoors to see what the outside world is up to. But windows are immediately turned into blank walls by shades and blinds and curtains, causing me to wonder why windows exist at all.

My pandemic mind continues its race against slow mo’ time.

I see from this side of the windshield the red bricks on each side of the blinded window, arranged here and there in what somebody thought was a pleasant design.

In front of the brick view is a rather scraggly tree, poorly cropped, with saggy little blossoms and ratty leaves, pleading for attention and care. Most of us, the spaced-apart, are also pleading.

A dental assistant wanders about the parking lot, searching for me, the next victim, er, patient. I snap back to the present as she approaches the car, allow my touchless temperature to be taken, dutifully follow her into the cool and somber clinic. Soon I am dealing with a more immediate reality–the reality of science poking about in my mouth.

Nothing like the immediate gloved touch and metallic meanderings of a stranger to bring me up to the moment. I am distracted from these self-centered concerns by conversation and diagnosis and eventual release back into the rotating world of activity. I pay the smiling desk piper, escape to my car, get the heck out of dental world, and look forward to the routines of the socially-distanced day.

What was I so worried about, anyhow?

The post-dental city awaits my invisible presence. My pandemic brain continues to rant and wander

 © Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

THIS OLD HOUSE

This old house is just sitting here in the dusk by the side of the road that I am driving on, on my way away from Birmingham to Blountsville, just this side of nowhere.

The sun and the mellowed-red skies are behind the house, and the streaked clouds glow, casting the front of the house into shadows. Shadows that are not quite ebony, not quite grey, not yet blackened.

This old house sitting in the dusk looks abandoned but sturdy, a place you could still move into and live a life should you choose. But it looks like nobody has been here for quite some time. The windows have no inner glow to them, as if lights and lanterns have not been turned on for years.

Houses like this old house are always considered haunted by my generation and my parents’ generation. Some are scared to enter houses that are old and not quite stylish. Afraid they will run into things that a well-lighted carpeted air-conditioned suburban home would not possibly contain. Things like ghosts and spirits and nesting animals and crawly critters.

There is something different about this old house, though. It just sits here empty but ready for occupancy. It is not run down and abused like those feared old houses of yore. Nobody has vandalized it or marked it for demolition, desolation.

Nobody wants this old house right this instant.

My first thought in seeing this old house is, I’ll bet there are some really interesting ghosts in that place! But something nudges me, pushes me one notch further. No, this is a house so lonely that it would gladly welcome ghosts.

This is a house so forlorn that even the ghosts have moved out, gone on to other hauntings.

The hair stands up on the back of my neck.

Both life and death have been sucked out of the wooden floors and plaster walls.

This old house now just rests in a time zone all its own, and it is just a matter of time before either curious humans or curious ghosts take a second look and try to decide whether this elegant corpse is ready for rejuvenation, reanimation.

Or whether it is now so much a part of the landscape that it will be abandoned and willed to the winds and the rains and the scorching days and the humid nights, till it looks once more like the red clay earth from which it sprang

 © Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

Catch Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast: https://youtu.be/khtgsRte980

or read the actual transcript below:

THE 47 UMBRELLAS OF ELSEWHERE 

Raindrops plop upon my head as I rush from grammar school to home back here in the 1940s of Deep South Alabama. My book satchel filled with damp homework assignments and half an uneaten apple left over from lunch, I am on course to find safe haven before the storm ramps up.

But childhood distracts. I slow down to let the rain soak my clothes and leaden my shoes.

Taking time to scan the horizon, I see so many wonderful challenges. There are mud puddles everywhere, beckoning. There are gutters spouting off ready-made outdoor showers. There are cars rushing by to splatter me with smiles and gasps.

I begin stomping at least once in every pothole, each soaked-grass median, pausing only now and then to catch my breath beneath sheltering trees.

Adults can be spotted along the way, leaning with their umbrellas, fighting against the brisk air.

I wonder what it would be like to own my own umbrella.

As the 1950s overtake me, I begin to experiment with the idea of not being soaked to the bone after walks in the rain. I even discover a tattered umbrella and wrestle it into partial usage. This time, the raindrops no longer fall upon my head, at least.

Then, I find myself using my Mother’s umbrella as a wind-catcher when I roller skate down our little avenue, even on rainless days.

I am seldom rewarded for arriving home drenched, or showing up with Mother’s turned-inside-out umbrella. But the fun I have seems to belong just to me, since I figure everybody else in town uses umbrellas as walking-sticks or protective weapons, or as just a way to look suave and prepared.

Then, I discover Gene Kelly in the film Singin’ in the Rain. Gene is doing all the things for his audience that I always felt were forbidden to kids like me. I instantly see that he remembers what it is like to be in grammar school, finding jolly good times in the gift nature is bestowing. It is OK to go racing in the rain!

Now, decades later, as a Deep South geezer reminiscing about umbrellas, I begin to count all the umbrellas I’ve owned or borrowed or lent or destroyed during this incredibly long lifespan.

As you and I know, umbrellas have a life of their own. Umbrellas are seldom where you need them when you need them, because they tend to remain in the last place you were. No amount of compensating addresses this problem, even when I purchase a dozen and scatter them about for convenience. They still migrate and mock and remain elusive, inanimate denizens of a merrily disjointed world.

They are crying out to be forgotten. They are screaming, “Toss me aside and accept what is coming down. Find your bliss and cling to it for dear life.”

Oh, the total is 47.

47 umbrellas I’ve owned or known, and they all live in the town of Elsewhere.

And Elsewhere is where I will find them once I’m done with treading the healing waters of Now

 © Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

Listen to Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast: https://youtu.be/nYg-Sbq1gCM

or read the transcript (below):

JOLLITY AND FEAR JOIN FORCES IN A DEEP SOUTH VILLAGE

One slightly hopeful result of this self-imposed exile of anxious souls is that we have more time to regard one another. And ourselves.

Taking time to take a deep breath does not come easy. Rote habits tend to override the opportunity to pause and assess our trajectories. The day-to-day rush to meet obligations distracts us from having to deal with anything too uncomfortable. When a free moment does occur, we impulsively turn to social media to make us feel as if we are busy and engaged.

Well, here in isolation, my untethered mind is free to cast about for new experiences, fresh attitudes. I have time to re-animate routines, rearrange deck chairs, tweak  agendas, re-regard family and friends and customers and vendors and servers, reassign their value in my life.

It’s quite a task, this arising from the depths of self-concern to look about and say, “What have I been missing?”

It turns out I’ve been missing out on what passes for real life down here on earth.

It’s interesting that the more people mask-up for protection, the more they become human, engaging, humane to each other. I suppose the masks are signs that pass between us, saying something like, “I’m trying to protect myself, but I’m also trying to protect the lives and well-being of people I love as well as people I don’t know and may never know.”

Suddenly we are becoming helpmates to a common good we were too busy to notice in pre-isolation times.

I know, I know—masking up frightens us, makes us feel we’re giving up something we once treasured, makes us a tad suspicious of whether facts on hand are being manipulated, whether we are being manipulated, makes us grumpy at times.

But what I am noticing in the heart of this village in which I ply my trade and live my life…what I am noticing is that some folks are feeling pride for their tiny sacrifices, some are reaching out beyond their masks and doing good deeds for other, more vulnerable people.

In a surprising way, these masks and distancings are constantly reminding us that, as independent as we are allowed to be in this country, we are still free to do good for ourselves and others, of our own free will. We are exercising our right to show kindness to one another.

Maybe that means we are all worthwhile. Maybe there’s hope for the world.

Just sayin’

 © Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

DEEP SOUTH CASTAWAY FINDS COOKIES AND HOPE

In my evergreen memories of being a Deep South child of the 1940s and ’50s, I am re-living a moment in time…a time when reading a book was the best adventure imaginable.

I cannot wait to turn the next page of the novel Robinson Crusoe.

I lie on the hardwood floor of summertime, invisible to those around me, because I am cast away upon a deserted island in the middle of nowhere, trying to survive by wit and mettle.

Robinson and I dive deep into an uncontaminated ocean to retrieve all we can of supplies stowed away upon the sunken ship that stranded us here. We frantically look for food, shelter, protection from cannibals and mutineers. We witness the solitary beauty of nature and the best and worst of humankind.

As isolated as we are, Robinson Crusoe and I find a way to survive on our own for 28 years, never knowing whether we will be rescued and re-birthed into a cantankerous civilization, or whether our bleached bones will be discovered centuries hence by a society that has never heard of books and totally unplugged independence.

I can feel the sun’s heat and the ever-present mosquitoes and the sand between my toes on this island, and…

“Jim, where are you?” calls my Mom.

I am jarred into reality.

“Uh, here, Mother!” I am in my room, hoping that I won’t have to tear myself away from this engrossing tale.

“Time to take out the garbage,” Mom says, politely failing to mention the fact that the trash can overfloweth because of my avoidance of unavoidable chores.

Back in these childhood times, in this particular generation, all kids have chores and duties. We also have our books and toys and playmates. We are also allowed to let our imaginations run wild, as long as we do our part to maintain the family.

I groan dramatically, find an H.G. Wells bubble gum trading card to use as a bookmark, carefully hide Robinson Crusoe and Daniel Defoe from sight, should a sibling happen upon it.

I head for the kitchen and the duty, grab a fresh-baked cookie from the window sill, and sally forth to my next somewhat trashy adventure. Not as exciting as hiding from cannibals, but definitely a sign of hope…hope that, once chores are completed, I can rejoin my pals, Friday and Robinson and freshly-snared fish.

Later, as I swim the pages of the book, I am almost disappointed when rescue occurs, when 18th-century society snatches us up and makes us all comfy again.

Sure, I like my chocolate-chip snacks, but to this day I can’t rid myself of all the fantastic and deadly and hardy escapades that took place on that tiny bit of land jutting from an azure sea, deep in the center of a fertile imagination

 © Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

Hear Jim’s podcast at: https://youtu.be/4LmqQFsuPPk

or read his transcript below:

ONE LIFE ONE MOMENT IN EVERY VILLAGE, USA

 You can see him right there, next to the fast-food diner in the heart of downtown, in the center of this village.

You can see him if you pause to look.

Here’s what you can see should you take the time.

Slow down and peek right and left. Lower your windows so that you can both see and hear what is outside your vehicle.

You can see him if you dare—yes, dare—to drive slowly, just beyond your comfort zone.

Yes, there he is, right next to the eatery.

He’s lying there flat on his back on the sidewalk just inside an alcove of an old building next door, and he looks dead except for the fact that one arm is stuck straight up and a lighted cigarette is being held firmly within direct view of his upturned face.

He has his eyes closed and there’s a look of blissful satisfaction on his face since he’s just eaten some kind of generic food, judging from the wrappers lying there right next to him and the half-full paper coffee cup resting nearby.

He’s just had his meal in his own dining room of a city and is lying there on his own city-sized bed and his ceiling is as high as the sunny sky and his shade is provided at his leisure by a tall building that nobody can take away from him since he doesn’t own the building in the first place and the building isn’t going anywhere in the second place.

One good breakfast one good cuppajava one good cigarette and a nice hot village day at his disposal, and the next moment seems hours away.

And isn’t right this second just wonderful and aren’t all those ragtags passing by in their air conditioned conveyances just plain missing this split second that’s so important so precious so long

 © Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

Listen to Jim’s Red Clay Diary on youtube: https://youtu.be/asapImi3m5U

or read his transcript  below:

Return with me now to those thrilling days of yesteryear, when I had time to be a teeny, time to experience the passages of youth. SCENES FROM A MEANDERING TEENHOOD…

SOMETIMES THE ECHO ANSWERS BACK

My imaginary flying carpet carries me beyond hither, way past yon. I am having great fun until I have to pull up to a gas station to re-fuel. Did Aladdin have to do this?

Floating in outer space, awaiting free fall, I suddenly realize that I need to go to the bathroom.

I spend weeks flirting with a coed in English class. My teen longing produces zero effect until, one day, the English coed responds and indicates she would be willing to go out with me. Suddenly, I realize that I do not have a car or a driver’s license. What was I thinking?

I’m standing atop a great pile of abandoned strip mine dirt. I look across the green water below and see another pile. Maybe I can yell and create an echo. I call out, “HaaaaaaaThere!” The echo hollers back, “So whattayou want with me already?” I skedaddle and never tell anyone else what just happened. Later, I wonder where my “HaaaaaaaThere!” went off to.  Is it still circling the globe?

My teen buddies, Dot and Jim, are joining me in wading across Hurricane Creek, heading toward a little island. Suddenly, Dot jumps a couple of feet in the air and climbs aboard my back. I follow her gaze and see a large rattlesnake lazing in the sun, slowly aroused. The three of us skedaddle. Lots of skedaddling occurs when you’re a kid.

My father takes brother Ronny and me hunting in a forest. Ronny has a rusty .22 rifle and I tote the double-barreled shotgun I’ve been gifted as part of a rite of passage. Dad fires his weapon at a high-up dancing squirrel. I don’t want to kill anything or anybody. To divert attention from my wimpyness I fire both barrels at the squirrel’s tree and hope I don’t hit anything. I still have that shotgun these generations later, but I’ve never fired it since. I believe the squirrel survived and is still dancing.

My playmate Jimmy and his kid brother are excited and frightened, and a bit nervous. They just observed several UFOs in a vacant lot near their house. I am a total skeptic, meaning I want more data. Jimmy describes in great detail what the flying saucers were doing, what they looked like. He even diagrams them. He really saw them. Again, as a skeptic, I am still awaiting the verdict, even though my own brother, Tim, also had a UFO experience years later. I secretly doubt that intelligent space aliens would ever bother to visit such a flawed species as Earthlings.

My best friend since second grade, Pat, tries an ESP experiment with me one evening at her home. We sit and focus and sort of meditate, then she asks me to guess what she is imagining—a number between one and 100. For some mysterious reason, I suddenly envision a large three-dimensional number 17 emanating from her forehead and gliding through the air toward me. It is the exact number she has written down. Like the UFO experiences, this has never happened again. We could not replicate the experiment. Being fairly smart, we did not obsess about it and went on to other activities. But isn’t that interesting?

One night, walking alone with nothing to do, I gaze up at the top of a very tall smokestack on the campus of an abandoned military base called Northington. Something comes over me. Since no-one is looking at or judging me, I decide to climb that smokestack, just to test my own courage. I grab a rusty iron rung and begin the ascent, not daring to look down. When I get about ten feet up, I figure maybe I’d better descend. Descending turns out to be more difficult than I imagine, because it involves looking down. What the heck, I tell myself. I’m already this high up. Might as well go for it. The smokestack gets taller as I climb, some of the rungs are rusty and slightly loose. But I gotta do it because I’m a teen and this is one of the insane things teens do. I finally make it to the top, gaze down the large dark hole, imagine myself becoming stuck there and being found as a skeleton years later. The rest of the story does go on. Let’s just say I finally made it safely to the ground and vowed never to do anything this stupid again. And if I have done stupid things since then, I’ll not reveal them to you.

Just a few scenes from my childhood. If you don’t like these, I have others.

Why not share your own scenes with me

© Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

Hear Jim’s latest Red Clay Diary podcast:

https://youtu.be/whJQ9d36t1Y

or read the transcript below:

ICHABOD CRANE MEETS DON QUIXOTE

The gaunt and wavering cafeteria server at Fife’s Restaurant is making an occasional gesture that I do not at first understand. It is Christmastime in the nervous city, and the customer line moves steadily toward the gesturing server while other employees pile wonders upon my plate.

The fragrance of fresh corn muffins and butterbeans and meat loaf magnetically lures me into Fife’s a few times a year—but especially during pre-holiday times. This is a real diner, one that has rolled onward for decades. Loyalists return frequently for a trip to the past. A grumpy cashier plies her trade, making me aware that, were she not grumpy one day, I would know something is terribly wrong. The efficient and pleasant table servers await me.

The clientele in front of me are inching forward toward the gesturer, who dispenses water and iced tea and bread as a final act of service before we are processed by the cashier.

His gesture. With one lanky arm and pointing finger, he is calling attention to the Christmas jar above the counter. It’s a tip jar. He is making sure in his own silent way that we customers at least have an opportunity to make his seasonal family a little happier. He hopes for gratuities but never asks, never disapproves when ignored.

What draws me to this ancient eatery? The food is always hot and copious. The decor is, well, not really decor—it’s more like somebody’s old, comfortable home. The booths and tables are worn and rickety but always clean and carefully bussed. 

I dig into my pocket for a few dollar bills, silently insert them into the jar as the recipient asks whether I prefer rolls or cornbread, water or tea, sweetened or unsweetened, lemoned or unlemoned. The transaction is completed. I have my loaded tray and cutlery and dinky little paper napkins. I survive the cashier. I embark upon a search for a welcoming table.

I ponder the unknown lives of diners and servers and cooks and bussers. I can’t fathom them all, but I can help myself remember the gesturing employee. He looks like a cross between Ichabod Crane and Don Quixote. Are his fears and dreams similar to those two iconic characters? What kind of child was he? How does he get home in the evening? What will he do with the paltry dollars and change he accumulates?

All is temporarily erased from imagination as I seek catsup for the meat loaf, salt and pepper for the beans, pepper sauce for the greens, butter for the corn muffin. I drown my present self in good feelings, read the juicy parts of the newspaper, leave another tip, this one for the chatty waitress.

And that’s the end of my Christmastime immersion in a place where good times past engrave themselves upon sweet memory. What remains is this little experience, for someday there may not be a Fife’s to nurture me. In times like these, there may never be another place to rub elbows and lives with such a diverse and easygoing crowd.

Attention must be paid, I tell myself. Attention must be paid

© Jim Reed 2020 A.D.