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WINTER BLUNDERLAND

Deep, deep down within the deep, deep South, I find myself wading through the leavings of one year, preparing to encounter a newly-birthed year.

I am tempted to make New Year’s resolutions but I tend to come up with safe ones that in no way challenge me. For instance, I resolve to inhale and exhale repeatedly throughout the year. Or, I plan to floss no more than once a day. And there’s always that one resolution that I make and break within minutes—-lose ten pounds and work out.

Resolution-making being a farce, I resolve not to make any. Instead, I wish to continue the practice of exploring the world through furtive glance and direct gaze.

Here are some things that astound and entertain me:

My quest to find the proper fastener for a piece of split wood takes me to the hardware store, a haven of emotion-deprived semi-conscious barely-mobile texting clerks who don’t know much about hardware but know a lot about googling. I finally locate one of those rare birds—-an old-timer who actually leads me down obscure aisles to search in real non-virtual time for just the right implement.

In this copious den of visionaries both real and imagined, I await my tiny fate.

Everywhere I go today, I find the Leaf Blower Syndrome hard at work. Leaf Blower workers are in the business of transferring trash and particulates to Somewhere Besides Here. Leaf Blower wannabes practice the fine art of referring me to Someone Else or Somewhere Else, secure in the notion that they have earned their income and done their job.

I get it. Lots of folks just transfer and delegate challenges to That Place Over Yonder.

Another New Year’s vision:

I am amused at the fact that I am often polite to robots. I say Thank You to a drive-through ordering device. I say No Thanks to a robocall request. I begin confessing sidebar information to an automated questionnaire that only wants a Yes or a No—-and tells me so. My computer requires passwords that I do not wish to provide, but I must obey in order to get anything at all done today. If I follow procedure and instruction the robotic internet will grant me permission to ply my life, live my day.

In the midst of all this mindless soulless automation, I cherish the real human contacts that occur outside the electronic cyborg world. The tiny moments of revelation or joy.

On the way to the drop-off laundry, I tune in to a jazz radio station. It Ellingtons its way through the car as I pull into the parking lot. The jolly laundry lady opens the passenger door to retrieve my cleanables and laughs quite lustily when she hears the music. She says, “Oh, Jim, you be jammin’!” As I drive away, she smiles and says, “You keep jammin’!”

This makes my morning. This is amusing, warming, symbolic, humane. This makes me smile. This erases all memory of abstract encounters with gadgets and distracted automatons and flaccid clerks.

I drive on to my other errands.

I keep on jammin’

© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast:  https://youtu.be/sOxjLs3-0r8

or read the transcript below:

THE JOYS OF JAYWALKING 

I’m dodging cars and dancing through traffic to get to the north side of University Boulevard.

Whoosh! There goes a red pickup truck, missing me by inches. I feel the warm draft of air rustling my jacket. I come to a halt on the center yellow line, awaiting the opportunity to race the rest of the way across the street. Two more vehicles and I am in the clear.

This is called jaywalking, and it is a tradition, a habit.

The time is 1970. I am young and foolish and full of energy. As opposed to right now, when I find myself not-so-young and just as foolish and minimally energetic.

Being youthful and unaware of consequences, I dash around the campus of the University, plying my trade each day. My job as a Mad Man is to run the school’s news bureau. That means holding press conferences, writing news stories, reducing my bosses’ diatribes to palatable statements, schmoozing the media and in general attempting to display the University in a positive light. Jaywalking is a way to save time and meet appointments. Travelling all the way to the corner and waiting for a favorable traffic light to send me on my way is just a waste of resources.

As years go by, I find myself continuing to be a poor man’s adventurer by jaywalking everywhere I go. I’m playing a video game without having to fret over the trappings of electronics.

As a young 1970′s dude, I also have a life beyond the University. At home I am the victim of fad and fashion. In addition to purchasing trendy ties and classy shoes, I also fall briefly under the spell of exercise promoters. I begin jogging, thus awakening each day with new sorenesses and nifty muscle pains.

Again, back to 1970, here I am another morning on the south side of eighth avenue south, getting ready to speed northward to the Veterans Hospital to interview a visiting scientist. The opportunity comes amid traffic and I begin running to cross before a looming Chevrolet runs me down.

Suddenly, I freeze in place right in the middle of traffic, unable to move. Leg cramps hold me stiff and sore. Traffic has to dodge and swirl about me as I limp to the center line to avoid sudden death.

For the first time in my life my body doesn’t obey my commands.

I finally hobble to safety, humbled by DNA and the physicality of life.

My jaywalking days will continue, but caution and fear will train me to take fewer risks.

Being of unsound mind and unpredictable body, I give up jogging. Ain’t worth the trouble, I tell myself.

Eventually, I abandon my Mad Man career out of sheer conscience, weary of trying to make iffy policies and procedures seem sterling, tired of spinning semi-truths, anxious to begin a new career over which I will have some control.

“The gunman was a loner who lived with his mother,” an oft-heard phrase employed by diffident reporters. I’d like to re-write this to read, “The jaywalker was a loner who lived with his wife.” The story might extend as, “He was known to keep to himself and read books whenever he could.”

I am preparing the news release now, at this moment. I might add, “The jaywalker emerged from his books now and then to mingle with family and friends and customers. Neighbors report that he seemed suspiciously drawn to writing stories and selling books, though no-one could say for sure what else he did in his private moments.”

Jaywalking, exercise-avoidance, doing bookie things like reading and writing…all seem to calm me down and give me purpose.

There could be worse ways to live a solitary life

© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed

WEBSITE

Hear Jim’s podcast: https://jimreedbooks.com/podcast

or read his transcript below:

THE APPLESEED UNIVERSE

I’m sitting on a rock some 500 feet above sea level, making notes.

The time is the 1970s, and this is the road to Mount Palomar observatory, way out west. Far away from my Deep South Alabama roots.

My small notepad with hardware store letterhead is filling up with penciled thoughts and memories and hopes and fears. Right now, nothing bad can happen because each time I glance at the valley below me, a deep sigh of relief issues forth involuntarily.

This is a special moment in time, and I know it will never happen again.

One of my lifelong dreams—to visit the world’s largest optical telescope. I have just done that. All it took was to wish upon some stars.

Now that I’m descending the mountain, I stop to absorb what has just occurred. The observatory is what I thought it would be—a symbol of my never-ending latent desire to know what’s beyond all visible boundaries. To know what’s out there. To find some hope beyond an encapsulated daily existence.

The very earthly presence of this telescope is a sign. A sign that there are others who, like me, want to find things out…just in case humanity has thus far managed to overlook something important.

So what’s the big deal? With bigger telescopes we learn that yet another billion galaxies exist. Does that help me pay the rent, feed the family, comfort the deprived?

Years later, I will find this quote from Martin Luther: ”Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.”

Sounds as if Luther and you and I intuitively know the same thing. We know that whatever is out there or down there or over there is worthy of inspection, just because and despite. Because it’s there. Because it might be there. Because it’s important to know if it’s not there.

Bits of wisdom, carefully accumulated and notated upon a hardware store notepad, are worthy of archiving, because and despite. Despite the forces that suppress. Despite the naysaying cynics. Despite the persistent tendency to deny and avoid.

Apple trees must be planted. Stars must be counted. Attention must be paid.

Just despite. Just because

© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed

WEBSITE

GLOVING UP FOR WINTER CHUCKLES

I am counting down the final days of autumn.

I am indeed approaching the winter of my contentment.

These days, I pay more attention to tiny things, tiny moments, tiny feelings, tiny thoughts…things and moments and feelings and thoughts that may go unnoticed should I forget to record them in my red clay diary.

So, why are these seemingly insignificant bits and pieces so…surprisingly significant?

Why do they matter?

To work through these ponderings, maybe I should name my new car, Eloquent.

That way, neighbors can observe, “There’s Jim, waxing Eloquent again.”

Try and stop me from going on about this. Just a few more words:

The first cold morning of autumn finds me digging through the detritus on the floor of the passenger side of Eloquent. I am searching for matching gloves.

Long ago, I purchased some gardening gloves, on sale, four pairs for two dollars. Who could resist?

With every spell of low outdoor temperatures, I grab the first pair of gloves in sight. One for the right hand, one for the left hand—who cares if their shades of brown don’t match up?

But this particular morning, I can’t for the life of me locate a right-hand glove. After diligence is spent, after time is squandered, I can only come up with four left-hand gloves. Has there been a glove rebellion?  Have the righters escaped?

Hmm. Have you ever tried putting a left-hand glove on your right hand? Two ways to do this, maybe three.

I turn the glove backwards and slide my hand in. A bit clumsily, since the gloves are formed to bend palmward, not the other way around.  Then I try donning the glove properly, but the little finger tends to be smaller than the thumb—ever noticed that?

Maybe I should try turning a glove inside-out. Think this will work? I’ll let you know.

Now…wasn’t that refreshing? Spending two minutes contemplating something so different, so silly and so engrossing that you can’t help but chuckle at the effort?

Well, at least I got a chuckle out of it, even if you didn’t.

An old Russian proverb states, “If you can tickle yourself, you can laugh when you please.”

Here I am, just tickling myself for the sheer fun of it

© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed

WEBSITE

Catch Jim’s 3-minute podcast:  https://youtu.be/jmDqEj9vy14

or read his thoughts below: 

THE FEAST OF REMEMBRANCE ABOUT TO BEGIN

A plastic-gloved cook behind the deli counter teeters beneath the weight of a large shallow metal pan, deposits it into a form-fitting slot, peels away the Saran cover.

Through the glass that separates her from expectant customers, she can be seen wiping clean spillage surrounding the steaming marshmallow-speckled sweet potatoes. She reaches behind to retrieve a large serving spoon, places it nearby.

Let the feast almost begin!

The familiar fragrance beckons my taste buds, excites fond memories that extend backwards through decades piled upon decades.

Yams are mandatory at festive celebrations. Christmas. Thanksgiving. Family get-togethers. Reunions. Post-funeral gatherings. Birthdays. Fourth of July picnics.

In my times long adrift, I remember little things. Things that increase in size with each passing moment.

Sparklers in the hands of merrily lawn-dancing kids. Dumplings. Backyard barbeque. Spongy biscuits made from scratch. Laughing uncles and aunts and cousins and buddies and playmates and family. Fresh-picked-and-hot-buttered corn on the cob. Homemade ice cream with sliced peaches afloat. Tomatoes grown just a few feet away. Kosher pickles and crunchy carrot sticks.

Now the cook behind the deli counter, netted hair, white apron and all, is bringing forth another heated pan, this one brimming with crunchy fried chicken. Serving doesn’t begin for another ten minutes, so waiting becomes almost as intense as all those memories.

Deviled eggs. Babbling babies. Goofy kids filling cups with sweetened iced tea. Salt and pepper shakers awaiting vigorous shakes. Meat loaf soft and warm and beckoning. Paper straws and pacifiers and mushy peas in Gerber’s jars. Gravy. Red sauce. Catsup. Mustard. Hot peppers. Solemn blessings delivered by solemn patriarchs  prior to digging in.

One large pan of crusty corn bread completes the deli spread. And now we diners are about to queue up and prepare ourselves for overstuffing and remembering.

Remembering. Remember how nice remembering can be?

Fleeting remembrance being the most soul-enriching thing that can possibly happen during the next few minutes at this cafeteria

© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed

WEBSITE

Hear Jim’s 4-minute podcast at https://youtu.be/V5T7auhr5OQ

or read his transcript below:

THE TUSCALOOSA SEARS STORE DOUBLE-DIP CAPER

If I close my eyes for a moment or two, I find myself traveling back to days that are long gone but always right here, awaiting reanimation.

This time, I am back in long-ago Tuscaloosa, speeding toward the Sears Roebuck store on 15th Street.

My second-hand—maybe third-hand—wobbly-wheeled bicycle bounces over curbs and along railroad tracks on the way home from the old Victorian home housing the public library. I have exited Shangri-La, book in hand, and am now headed for nirvana.

I screech to a stop at Sears, park the unchained bike (who would bother stealing it?) and head indoors, hoping against hope that the candy counter is open for business.

You won’t remember how the Sears candy counter was structured if you aren’t as old as I. 

It is a free-standing island in the middle of the store, a blocked-off area surrounded on four sides by glass display cases filled with every dentist’s dream: tons of sweet confections.

The ritual is simple. I slowly encircle the rows of candy displays, gazing carefully at each and every item, imagining the taste and texture and heft of all these wonders, until I return to the spot where I began.

Then, invariably, I do the exact thing I’ve done a hundred times before. I approach the counter wherein the double-dipped chocolate covered peanut clusters beckon. 

I wait patiently for the candy counter clerk to notice me, never once removing my eyes from the peanuts, afraid someone will buy them up before I get my shot.

The clerk comes over, stares down at me over the scales, and asks pleasantly, “May I help you?”

I try to contain my excitement. I say in a steady if sometimes crackling voice, “Yes, I’d like some double dipped chocolate covered peanut clusters, please.”

“How much do you want?” she asks. I look at the per-ounce price and quickly count the change in my pockets.

“Uh, two dollars’ worth, please.”

The clerk opens her  side of the case to access the candy, fills an aluminum scoop with just under the correct amount ordered, and places the coated peanuts in a white paper bag atop a shiny scale.

Then, she does a most remarkable thing, a thing few clerks know how to do these days.

She weighs the bag, notes that it needs just a few more peanuts to rise to the two-dollar mark, scoops those up and bags them, folds the top of the sack, collects my money and hands over the goods.

The  other clerk, who is absent today, is the one no-one wants to deal with. She is the clerk who scoops up too many peanuts at once, bags them, then tilts the bag to empty its overloaded contents down to the two-dollar mark.

The first clerk makes me feel I’m getting something extra, the second clerk appears to be taking something away from me.

A life’s lesson I carry with me to this day.

I love going to the old Fife’s Cafeteria these days in downtown Birmingham for precisely the same reason I used to go to Sears. The servers in the line always add a little something to each serving, as if they’re slipping me an extra treat.

Blinking back to the present time, I am now in my bookstore, reminding myself to treat each customer as if there’s something extra in the book bag. I throw in a bookmark, give a modest discount, add a smile and a “hope you have a great day,” hoping that here and there, a customer will “get it” and appreciate these small attentions.

Even if the customer doesn’t notice, I do. I notice. And I go home feeling just a wee bit better about the world.

And, now and then, these days, I search the countryside in vain for some great double dipped chocolate covered peanut clusters served in a sparkling white paper bag

© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed

WEBSITE

Listen to JIm Reed’s Red Clay Diary blog:  https://youtu.be/cBsYLqoxmcc

or read his story below:           

WHAT TO WRITE WHEN YOU CAN’T WRITE     

 You can tell I just conducted a session for writers—professionals, wannabes, muses, students, learners. That is, you can tell by reading and pondering over a little message I delivered to them. Here is what I said in Orange Beach, Alabama on Sunday morning.

     Here’s something I wrote when I couldn’t think what to write.

     I just let my hand move with the pencil.

     Or maybe the pencil took over and moved my hand.

Sometimes I say things I don’t mean to say.

Sometimes I say things I do mean to say.

Sometimes I say things I do mean to say but don’t want

  you to know I meant to say.

Sometimes I say things I don’t mean to say and hope you

  know I don’t mean to say.

Sometimes I say things I do mean to say but hope you

  think I didn’t mean to say.

Sometimes I say things I do mean to say but hope you get

  the point of what I meant without being able to criticize

  me for that moment of seemingly unintentional honesty.

Sometimes I say things I do mean to say but hope you’ll

  think I didn’t mean to say so that you will get the point

  without my having to take any responsibility for what

  I’ve said.

Sometimes I say too much.

Sometimes I say too little.

Sometimes I wish I could say everything I want to say and

  have somebody not get bored.

Sometimes I wish I were cool enough to make bold and

  lasting statements without ever saying much of anything

  aloud.

The point is, writers gotta write. Even if they think there is nothing to write about. Not writing about not writing is itself something to write about.

If you are a writer or a ponderer or a reader or a muse or wonderer or a wanderer among words, try writing about nothing or something or something in between.

Good luck, comrade of words unspoken and words spoken. Let’s see what you come up with

© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed

Listen to Jim’s podcast: https://youtu.be/RF2ZPW5PdoI

or read his words below. Or do both.

RISE OF THE ELECTRIC DREAM REARRANGER

“Be the last kid on your block to discover the wonders of television!”

The excited announcer on my small Bakelite radio receiver extols the endless joys of owning a television set. Only what he really says is, “Be the FIRST kid on your block to discover the wonders…”

To me, a 1950s kid accustomed to living among neighbors and playmates and closely-tied family, the arrival of a television set means the end of childhood. Almost the end of neighborhood. Certainly the end of playmates.

I find out about The Electric Dream Changer the first time I hop off the front porch and go yelling for the attention of my buddies—the kids I play with each summer day in this tiny world of Eastwood Avenue.

This one day, one of us is missing.

“Oh, Lenny, his folks got a new tv set,” Bubba tells me.

“Oh,” I say. “Well, when is he coming over?”

Bubba chews on a small piece of sugar cane and gazes down the street toward Lenny’s house. “He’s waiting for the show to come on. I don’t think he’ll be here for a while.”

“The show” is a black-and-white test pattern that stares back at the viewer, waiting to be replaced by Buffalo Bob and Howdy Doody.

I reassess the playtime situation and wonder how gazing at a glass rectangle could be as much fun as playing Tarzan of the Apes in the back yard.

No more than a few days later, Bubba is gone, too, whisked away by another new television set.

Soon, I am playing by myself. Or playing with brother Ronny. Or, now and then, with any other tv-less kid on the block.

Sitting on the front porch after sundown, I await the usual passers-by, the neighbors and friends and relatives who visit and chat and gossip. Familiar faces now and then bearing gifts of pie or cookies or goodwill.

They stop coming as often. They are home, watching television.

I sigh and retreat into my small room and do what I always do when bereft of companions. I read. I write. I take notes. I ponder. I read some more.

It’s always comforting, being alone in my exciting land of books and imagination. But now I have to adjust to the fact that there will be no break-time for running amok outdoors. I rearrange my dreams to match my small reality. I become comfortable with myself.

But now and then I still miss those spontaneous play times, those instant yells and laughs, those boisterous and corny jokes. The ease with which we all share childhood.

Nowadays, as a writer, I get to remind myself and anyone paying attention, that there was once a time when face-to-face was so much fun.

When we just entertained one another.

When we didn’t delegate our so-precious time to faraway strangers

© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed

Listen Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary 4-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/wlKwWahQkyc

or read his story below:

QUESTIONS NEVER ASKED NEVER ANSWERED

I am lying in the backyard playground of childhood right now, facing the skies.

Fond memory takes me back.

Back to a moment in time when a rickety wood-and-canvas lawn chair is the only thing restraining me from falling to the twilight firefly-scattered grass.

As the western horizon of Tuscaloosa glows and dims, stars begin twinkling one by one by dozens. Planets renew their steady colors. Sounds of the neighborhood are so familiar I don’t hear them right now.

The dew glistens a bit under a rising moon behind me to the east. At this moment I am alone. Family members are scattered elsewhere, attending little league games, the scent of mustard and hot dogs beckoning. Attending movie theatres with friends.

My imagination has time to unleash itself during these caressing solo moments.  Now I am free to ponder all the imponderables of a fertile mind.

Questions, questions, tumbling about and prodding me to ask more than I can answer.

For instance:

When I am no longer earthbound, will my shadow know I’m gone? Shadows seem real because I can see them. I never take them for granted, for they are as much of the landscape as I. But no-one can tell me where shadows go, what they do when we are not looking, what they sense about me. Are they as real as me? If shadows are real, perhaps I am the ethereal being, subject to being birthed, living a life, going away someday.

Leaving the shadows to fend for themselves.

Pondering is so much fun. It makes me think outside my knowledge. It causes me to massage the universe on my own terms.

I shift in the lawn chair as a meteor flashes itself into joy, then disappears.

Another question:

When I am gone, will mirrors miss me? As long as I am around I can see my reverse self living a separate life in every mirror I pass. Is that reverse country the real country, am I just a reflection?

These are questions I never ask teachers or parents whose philosophies cannot absorb them. Sometimes these questions make me laugh, but I laugh only because they are serious and real. I enjoy them because they are unanswerable.

A high-flying airplane blinks from north to south, barely audible. Critters sing their songs. A lone puppy yaps twice, then resumes sleep.

The stars are out in full force now. Back in these days, before electricity forces nighttime away, there are so many stars above that I feel I can reach just a little higher than usual and touch them.

Right now, floating above earth on canvas, floating beneath the untouchable heavens, I can think my thoughts, write my notes, squirrel them away for future reference.

Right now, I am building an index to my life. And later, as late as the 21st century, I can dig the notes out, arrange them at will, and share them with you, whoever you are, wherever you are.

And, sharing these memories and dreams and reflections, I can ponder whether you are real or whether I just made you up in order to imagine that there are other dreamers like me, cruising the galaxy with nothing holding them back, at least for this precious moment

© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed