Listen to Jim:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/booksidwanttoreadifonlytheyexisted.mp3

or read on…

Sometimes I just gotta pause and get something silly off my chest. These book titles are cluttering my mind. I wrote this entry eleven years ago. Nothing has changed.

BOOKS I’D WANT TO READ IF ONLY THEY EXISTED

Think and Grow Sluggish

 The Count of Monte Crisco

Apocalypse Week Before Last

The Lord of the Bathtub Rings

The Kindle Thief

The Next to the Last of the Mohicans

Munchies at Tiffany’s

The Whining

The Rise and Fall of the Third Facelift

Madame Bovine

Putin on the Ritz

Love in the Time of Croup

The Canterbury Tweets

Moby Bernie

Catcher in the Gluten Free Rye

Gone with the Breeze

Pride and Aimlessness

As I Lay Scheming

50 Shades of Puce

For Whom the Bull Toils

Mein Kampfire

Withering Heights

Fahrenheit 17 1/2

The Electric Band-Aid Ouchy Test

Abraham Lincoln’s Aerobics Class

The Outsiders Go Shopping

In Lukewarm Blood

Harry Potter and the Hangnail of Death

Twelve Years a Slave to Fashion

The Full Monty Python

© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Catch Jim’s youtube podcast: https://youtu.be/a1Rk8kKfaFY

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Life, actually…

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HOW TO RE-REVIEW AND RE-RENEW YOUR WORLD

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“Here we are as in olden days, happy golden days of yore…”

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The lyrics of an old Yuletide carol fade from memory, quickly replaced by a  New Year that is happening with or without my permission.

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Here it is, ready or not.

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So, what will this newborn era bring to me? What will I bring to it?

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Is it in control of me, or am I the baton-wielding conductor?

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How can the world as it is, co-exist with the world it could be?

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Enough with the soul-searching questions, away with the philosophizing. It’s time to get on with life.

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Happy New Year!

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Sometimes, stopping to smell the roses can be thorny. But sometimes, it’s a good way to re-start, re-boot, refresh, renew.

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You might even consider getting up close and allowing the roses to enjoy you.

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Let me toss a thought or two into the atmosphere. Here are some notions about gaining control of your world on your own terms:

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Sit still in a park or restaurant or window and carefully observe the first village elder who passes by. Memorize every graceful move, scrutinize all limited motions, note the assuredness, the insecurity, the constant overlap of mind and matter, the recollections that must be occurring.

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Sit still and carefully consider the fact that you are gazing through a portal to a future time. You are observing yourself as you might be some future day.

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Then, consider what suggestions you the future Elder might offer to this present-moment version of You.

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If nothing occurs, consider what you would like to say to that distant-future You.

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Be kind.

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Carefully observe the reactions of both selves.

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Close your eyes for 90 seconds and bring your selves together in peace, understanding and harmony.

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Snap!

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Some other harmless but notable things to do:

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At a public event, pretend you are about-facing in order to view the audience behind you, ignoring what’s up front. 

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The audience is the real show. Everything else is artifice.

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Carry snapshots of your parents and grandparents and brag about them every chance you get.

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Have someone read you a bedtime story.

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With eyes closed, clutch a very old book to your chest for an hour and imagine what is happening inside that volume. Then, open it up and view the pop-up world within.

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If all this unsolicited advice is too strange for you, make your own list of ways to view this new year. You are a passenger, but now and then you can occupy the driver’s seat.

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Turn the world upside-down for a day and tell me what that was like

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© Jim Reed 2024 A.D.

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

or read the transcript below.

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Life, actually…

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GIVE US PATIENCE RIGHT NOW!

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Encroaching holidays give me an excuse to examine the ol’ Red Clay Diary for signs of intelligence past…in this case, Christmas past.

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Here is an entry from more than a quarter-century ago. A long time gone. Another era. Lives passed by but always on call in the journal of your heart…

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Well, Christmas runs hot and cold down here in the Deep South. The temperature in Birmingham will be below 20 for the next two nights—that’s cold for us Alabamians!

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Will Phil (my philodendron here at the shop) make it through the night? Will our pet finch make it? Will water pipes freeze despite the fact that we’ll be practicing the trickle-down theory of thawed-plumbing-flow all night?  Will I be able to get the fire started without kindling, just to make us think we’re Christmas-warm in our century-old house? Or will I cop out and place a particle-board log under the real one to make it burn well?

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Will my daughter’s car start in the morning or will I have to grumble-crank it myself?

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Will I think kindly of all those people in other parts of the world who are roughing it in a deep winter with multi-footed banks of snow? Will they think of us as victims of tornadoes and prickly heat?

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And will I have just the right book to cuddle if we get frozen in by one inch of snow (really—that’s about all it takes to shut down the city here under the right conditions)?

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Of course.

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Even though I wander among thousands of books in my shop, I do sneak a few home every night to rummage and ruminate through. Can’t get enough.

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Maybe tonight will be catalog night. I’ll look at what other people might be buying for themselves…might have been buying for themselves a generation or two ago. Nothing in the catalogs will be as oddly diverse as the titles around me right now.

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My book patrons and I—we the book guardians—wait patiently. As browsers pause and examine, brows furrowed, lip corners turned upward, what will they adopt? What will they carry home?

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We watch patiently, fascinated by the mysterious process.

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The suspense is beautiful and maddening.

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O Book Cosmos, please grant us patience—and of course we want patience this very minute!

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The Season is sneaking closer. Prepare ye for unconditional moments of pleasure blended with the jittery knowledge that each good moment may be jumped by a snarling unpleasant moment. But that just means that yet another good moment is preparing to pounce

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Listen to Jim’s 3-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/fEqTNh-KCDA

or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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THE SNOWMAN WHO WOULDN’T MELT

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Just this week, a young father with two happy wiggly kids in tow came into the shop and purchased a most wonderful lighted top-hatted Snowman for Christmas. I dug through decades of the Red Clay Diary to find this note about the ancestry of Mr. Snowman. It’s all about appreciating whatever we eventually have to let go:

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In my bookshop and museum of fond memories, a large lone Snowman keeps watch over the many dreamy items you can find if you get lost here for a few hours.

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This is the kind of Snowman any child would love.  That’s because he never melts.

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This is the kind of Snowman you can trust to be on duty day and night, pleasantly glowing white, always in a good mood, and within protective view of a nearby fifty-year-old life-sized Santa Claus who stares out over the village.

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Around my meltless Snowman’s neck is a violet Slinky, a breezy year-round scarf that offsets the blue and green 3-D glasses he wears.  This is one Snowman who sees the world through tinted glasses and, though he has a carrot for a nose, the carrot will stay fresh forever because it, like the Snowman himself, is made of plastic.

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Years ago, the magic Snowman was the last display-model snowman in the annual Fix-Play Display sale—you know, the gigantic Christmas decoration sale that used to be conducted by this long-gone downtown business.

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I adopted the icy figure at the Fix-Play sale and put him in charge of the shop.

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Thousands of suburbanites used to trek here once a year to purchase the kinds of decorations you can’t easily locate anywhere else. Third-and-fourth-generation customers came to Fix-Play, looking for just the right Meltless Snowman or Ancient Santa Claus to keep watch over their Christmas trees by night.

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They went away confident in the knowledge that a Snowman who won’t melt is just about as magic a Christmas present as you can possibly imagine

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Listen to Jim’s 6-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/jHNUTru2IJU

or read the transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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THREE DAYS A SPIT APPRENTICE

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Remember back some twenty or so years ago when we wrestled with imperfect desktops and cranky printers?

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I remember:

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HOW TO CONVERT ELECTRONIC-SCREEN-IMAGE PRINT INTO GOOD OLD-FASHIONED INK-ON-PAPER PRINT IN THIRTY OR SO STEPS WHILE KEEPING BEPTO-BISMOL HANDY

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Got to print as many copies as possible before the machine revolts again…

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Must cross fingers and hope for a miracle…

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I’m right in the middle of trying to produce a bunch of copies of the Alabama Writers’ Conclave brochure announcing this year’s seminar, using my trusty HP Deskjet 940c Hewlett-Packard printer, when the damned thing stops printing and flashes this little yellow light while at the same time producing on the computer screen a message that basically says, “You’ve got the wrong toner cartridge installed, so un-install it and install the correct toner cartridge, you imbecile!”

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The machine stops printing the brochures, which means that I can’t meet half the writerly deadlines I’ve imposed upon myself, so that I hand-deliver what I have managed to print thus far.

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I cleverly un-install the printer cartridge and install one of the old cartridges (one that’s supposed to be out of ink), and the little yellow light immediately stops blinking.

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There is hope.

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I start printing more brochures, but then a sign comes up on the screen saying, “This cartridge is low on ink. Replace it. That means un-install it, you imbecile!”

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I continue running copies anyhow, keeping a close eye on the brochures so that I can stop as soon as the ink gives out, which it never does, except now the message of the screen tells me, “You’ve installed this cartridge improperly, so do it again until you get it right, you imbecile.”

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Where does a machine like this learn a term such as imbecile? I wonder.

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I make the screen message disappear and the machine keeps on printing. Wanting to stay ahead of the impending demise of the cartridge, I again place a new one in the printer and get that damned blinking yellow light again. So…I go downstairs and next door to Kinko’s and purchase a brand-new cartridge (paying premium price), thinking that perhaps the old one is faulty. As soon as I’ve tried the new cartridge and found it not working, I return to Kinko’s and get another one—which also does not work.

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Now I have to face the inevitable Fork in the Road: Do I call the local printer-repair company and pay for a house call, or do I contact Hewlett- Packard’s “help” center and sit around for hours listening to really annoying music while another computer places me on hold with some message like, “Just sit there like the imbecile you are and listen to this irritating music while a techy finishes his bologna sandwich and recreational pharmaceutical out back…then we’ll get with you.”

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The next day, having had no success in contacting either the local printer repair company or the internet technical help department, I go to Office Depot and purchase yet another cartridge, just in case the two at Kinko’s are part of a conspiratorially faulty pack. No luck with that cartridge, either. After calling and talking with three different printer repair staff members over a period of three days, none of whom is a technician and none of whom gets the message I’m leaving correct, I’m ready to give up. But I call back one more time and try to see whether a technician is available. The operator says, “You said we delivered the wrong cartridge to you?”

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“No!” I say, “I just wanted to get the printer working again.”

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“Oh,” she says, “I thought you wanted to talk with a technician, but they’re all out.”

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“I don’t care whether I talk with a technician or not,” I say, “I just want the printer repaired so that I can use it.” I’m getting snippy by now, and I’m suddenly turning four years old.

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Meanwhile, a Hewlett-Packard guy calls back (after charging me $30 via credit card) to see if the problem has fixed itself. “Well, as a matter of fact, it did fix itself,” I say, which is true, since about a half hour ago, a technician from the local printer repair company walks in unannounced, to look at the printer person-to-machine, so to speak. I tell him the problem, he takes the offending cartridge out of the printer—exCUSE me, he un-installs the cartridge—and licks his right thumb, then runs the wet thumb over the copper-colored contact surface of the cartridge. He sticks the cartridge—uh, INSTALLS it—back into the printer, and the printer starts working immediately. I try the other cartridges I’ve bought and sure enough, they don’t work until I’ve rubbed an even compound of spittle onto the contacts with my thumb.

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The technician gives me a philosophical, “Well, our job is done here, Tonto, we’d best be moseying along” look and leaves, not charging me a thing for his visit.

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When the internet Hewlett-Packard guy I’ve paid $30 calls up, I tell him what happened, and he just says, “Remarkable. I’ve never heard of such a thing,” to which I reply, “Maybe you should add this instruction to your list when making suggestions about printer repairs.” Then, as an afterthought, I say, “On the other hand, it might not work where you live. Southern spit is probably unique in its healing qualities.”

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He can only agree.

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My printer works fine. Now, I just have to un-install my attitude about printers and try to make friends with this one. After all, I’ll be spitting on it regularly from now on

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 4-minute podcast on facebook:  https://youtu.be/Q6mXlIMAQ0o

or read the transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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FISHWRAPPERS ARE ME

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I’m making my way from early-morning creaky front porch to dew-sprinkled automobile this morning. Should you pass by my home at this moment, I will wave and smile. I like doing that.

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My right hand slides down the damp metal bannister to the speckled sidewalk. I head toward the dusty white picket fence gate and pry it open. It always expands and contracts as humidity rises and falls. On the sidewalk just past the gate lies a blue-bagged folded newspaper awaiting my free hand. The other hand holds my morning liquid, my bag of necessities, my container of munchings.

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I toss the newspaper into the open car door. It lands on the front passenger seat. It is quickly topped with bag and paraphernalia. I’ll retrieve it later.

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Ever since I tenured as an adult, I have been happily addicted to the newspaper and its contents and its attending rituals.

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After a mile or two, I sit within idling vehicle, waiting for a store to open. I open the blue plastic bag, check the freshly-gnawed hole at its edge—a daily sign that some critter, hearing the PLOP of the paper on wet grass, rushed over to see whether it is edible.

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Unfolding the front page I brace myself for whatever horrors and joys will leap out—as, usually, they must do.

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Then, I search for the inside table of contents that will point me to what I want to know. First, what page will contain today’s obits? There is no better way to briefly encapsulate someone’s life. A morning short story with beginning, middle and end neatly arranged.

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Then, the quote of the day. Somebody somewhere said something worth repeating—sad, mad, glad, goofy, inspirational…whatever. Then I dive into the editorial page and its litany of grumblings and wisdoms and angrified letters. Enough to make the head swim…or at least tread.

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I unfold and expand the paper with print-smeared fingers and noisily search for the science page. I find relief within the science page because at its best it provides me with nonpolitical nonfictionalized nonagenda data. A respite from the noise of pay-attention-to-my-life or please-believe-my- exaggerated-truths or won’t-you-buy-my-product-or-my-service-just-because-I-present-it-so-charmingly.

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The  shop before me opens its doors. I stuff the newspaper parts onto the car floor and get ready to face the day. I am filled with info both new and recycled. But at least I find a way to jump-start the next 24 hours, the 24 hours till my next critter-pecked newspaper grins at me from the sidewalk or some nearby shrubbery.

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HOW OLD AM I?

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I’m so old I must hold in my hands each and every morning…a newspaper! Don’t wish to experience mornings without such a crinkly object at hand. Don’t know how I would get along without the news of the day stretched forth before me. Don’t wish to know.

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So there

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Catch Jim’s 3-minute podcast at: https://youtu.be/Omp-4jwRlIw

or read the transcript below…

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Life, actually…

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THE DOWN-SOUTH MOON SEES YOU

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The full moon is suspended in a childhood southern sky. There it is, glowing like a buttermilk snowball just above the starry eastern horizon.

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It is seventy-five years ago in this deep south village, and tonight the heavens belong exclusively to eight-year-old Jimmy Three.

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Jimmy Three has the universe all to himself because he is the only kid in sight who is lying flat on his back on an old handmade quilt spread upon dewy grass.

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For this moment, Jimmy Three is just another imagination floating in the ether, allowing his dreams to guide him.

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He squints at the creamy moon and starts to form questions.

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How is it that he can hide the entire orb behind his tiny thumb? It doesn’t make sense. He learns in school that the moon is thousands of miles big. He know that he is a mere handful of inches in height, his thumb smaller still.

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So how can the moon be so easily obliterated at his personal leisure?

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Does this phenomenon occur only in Alabama skies, or is he becoming aware that any kid anywhere on the planet can mimic his inquiry? Can kids everywhere experience the firmament, observing all the wonders that adults have long ago given up?

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Will Jimmy Three one day forget about the miracles just above his head? Will life become such a full-time distraction that he forgets to dream?

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Is wonderment over when he rolls up the quilt and sleepily heads toward home? Will activities of daily living turn him into an almost-aware ghostly figure?

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Will Jimmy Three grow elderly and wizened and put-upon by responsibility as the years race forward?

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Or can Jimmy Three find a way to privately re-visit his quilty glowing dewy moments of childhood, when all that matters for a few minutes is the gossamer fact that the heavens and Jimmy Three are close friends?

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Will the heavens recall Jimmy Three’s pleasure, or will Jimmy Three take his memories away with him to a private and starry haven that nobody else, nothing else, can access?

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As a village elder Jimmy Three to this day loves questions like these, questions that you can answer any way you like, because they exist beyond science, beyond reality. But never beyond memory

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Listen to Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast:

https://youtu.be/G8-sbhT-sE0

or read the transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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ALABAMA THRILL HILLS

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Zooming around the curves of Thrill Hills, my hometown’s least heralded but at one time best-utilized roadway, was the nighttime occupation of entire generations of teenagers.

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What my father’s generation called “Thrill Hills” extended the entire length of Fifteenth Street East, from Northington Campus all the way to Five Points near the Veterans Administration Hospital. It seemed like a long way, way back then.

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What was the overriding importance of Thrill Hills to teenagers of my father’s time, and mine?

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Well, you might get different stories from different people. Thrill Hills was relatively unpatrolled at night, so kids could try out their parents’ automotive vehicles and hopefully never leave evidence behind of what speeds they achieved.

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Thrill Hills was unlighted. You could not easily be identified in the darkness.

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Back in those days, everybody knew everybody in this Down South village, so you couldn’t get away with much if you were seen whizzing by at 65 miles an hour on Fifteenth Street—a considerable speed back then.

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But my father finally told me the real reason Thrill Hills was so popular with teens.

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It was a place where for a moment you could get very close to even your most timid date for the evening.

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Once you pressed the accelerator and leapt over those steep hills in the middle of the night, into the asphalt valleys and around the surprise turns, your date would hopefully grab hold of you real tight, scream loud and get all nervous and excited.

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Back then, that was as close to Going All the Way as you could get. If you’re too young to know what Going All the Way meant, ask me or any old-timer.

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Thrill Hills also gave a girl an excuse to grab a guy without necessarily making a commitment. At least the date would be a memorable one, one you could talk about a whole passel of years later, just like my old man did. Just like I’m doing.

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Every time I come to the village of my youth I try to explore the old routes to places, and Thrill Hills is one of them.

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Unfortunately, Thrill Hills isn’t so thrilling anymore. The road has been widened and lit and striped, making it a lot less daring. The hills have been smoothed down. They no longer have those steep dips and sharp turns. They are no longer as menacing.

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The main loss is that feeling of remoteness, other-worldliness.

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Next time I’m cruising my past, I’ll take one more imaginary tour of Thrill Hills. I just may press the accelerator at the top of Thrill Hills and once again get that wonderful scary feeling in the pit of my stomach as the car zooms downward in freefall, hopefully causing my wife to grab hold of me and scream from remembered passion instead of abject disapproval.

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I won’t know this will happen till I’ve tried it, will I

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast at https://youtu.be/VnHy-Q0b0ms

or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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WATCH OUT!

ONE MORE DOWN-SOUTH BOOK IS ABOUT TO LAUNCH ITSELF 

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Not so long ago, I published a book of random leftover thoughts that didn’t make it into  previous books. The book was called WHAT I SAID. It was fun to see people’s reactions to the original bits and pieces that leapt out of my mind over the years. It is filled with ideas mad, sad, glad, bad, silly, profound, stupid, wise.

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I thought it was done, this volume of going-nowhere notes. But after the book made its rounds, the thoughts kept coming. I could not stop my brain. So, next week, yet another book will go to press, a sequel called WHAT MORE CAN I SAY?

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Here are some lines that will appear in the new book:

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Page 6. Everything happens for no particular reason.

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Page 7. A galoot is someone who does not know what a galoot is.

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Page 8. Someday I’d like to gather a bunch of artists’ collages

and turn them into old magazines.

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Page 16. Profusely equals exactly how many?

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Page 19. How does a snail know when it has a runny nose?

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Page 20. I look forward to the day First Place comes in Second.

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Page 22. A trash can is actually a time capsule.

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Had enough? The book contains hundreds of unpredictable thoughts. I am giving you a heads-up in case you want to run for cover before it comes out.

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As a bonus today, here are some more:

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Page 25. I just realized that sooner is sooner than sooner or later.

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Page 29. Boarding the asylum elevator, he found himself ascending into madness.

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Page 32. When applauding, you get a better sound by using both hands.

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Page 49. Sometimes I’m wishy, other times I’m washy.

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Page 53. It is high time we re-invented the wheel.

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Wish me luck

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed