Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/museme.mp3 or read on…

ADVENTURES OF THE BOOKENDED MUSE

I’m bookended this week.

.

Today (Sunday), the Word Up! county-wide poetry contest for high schoolers

tickled my Muse and made me smile to the brim.

.

This coming Tuesday night, an inspiring reading/reception at the Hoover Library

will tickle me again, this time with a joyous mishmash of poets, authors, artists and

photographers, all celebrating their work in the pages of the new issue of

Birmingham Arts Journal (y’all come! 6pm).

.

What’s in it for me, these two energizing events designed to make us all

want to tell our stories with zeal?

.

Well, each event is mandatory for me. I’m the annual emcee for one and the

quarterly editor/emcee for the other. The commitments themselves keep me

focused, keep me attending. If I were not on the program, my interest would

likely trail off, replaced by some new endeavor. The best way to keep myself

involved with any enterprise is to make an ironclad promise that holds me

responsible for the outcome.

.

My dad’s old-fashioned but never-really-out-of-fashion work ethic was

passed on to me.

.

If you encourage me to participate in something or other, my natural inertia

will probably prevent me from following through, since it’s easier to go home

after work and collapse into a meditative but sluggish heap. The good news

is that once I’m signed on and responsible, I’ll likely carry on with dedication

and zeal. This is good for me, since it keeps me from finding excuses to disappear.

.

This particular weekly column, then, is something I’ve promised my Muse and my

Self to continue ad almost-infinitum and, looking back, I realize I’ve been writing it

for way more than 25 years.

.

Yep, even when my weekly commentary was seen by a mere 400 bookdealers in

four countries, I always produced it. Then, when it started appearing in various small

newsletters and magazines around the region, even more folks had a chance to read

it—at least I think they did. Then came books that reprinted some of the columns.

And, for the past two or three years, many hundreds more are exposed to them through

the internet via blog, blast, tweet, facebook, website, links, etc.

.

My bookends are always driving me. Behind me is one deadline, before me is another,

and at this moment, while writing this, one deadline is encompassing me.

.

Thus proving that my Muse is really just Me

.

© 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/friendme.mp3 or read on…

A mere 17,000 years ago (in Lascaux and a thousand other places),
folks were tweeting and text messaging and friending and linking and
graffiti-ing to their little hearts’ content…only, they didn’t call it the
same thing back then.
.
Here at the Museum of Fond Memories at Reed Books, I can’t help
being reminded of this fact, constantly. Each time I pick up an artifact
and examine it for its internally-sealed, private history, I have the tingly
feeling that this long-lived object is a time capsule, and that it is my
responsibility to translate and forward its contents for you, my patron
and customer…for you, my heir.
.
For instance:
.
From the hundreds of old letters and postcards that reside in the shop,
I pick up one item at random…and within that item I could spend a day,
lost in translation. It’s a hundred-year-old love letter. There’s a mustard
stain on the second page—what could we learn of old-time mustard-processing,
were we to have it analyzed? There’s a pressed four-leaf clover for
luck—a tiny, carefully selected gift to the recipient of the letter. There
is legible and concise handwriting—when did schools stop teaching
the art of clear, loving and personal penmanship?  There is correct
spelling and sentence structure (I still spell out every word in my tweets
and textings). There is florid letterhead with tiny angels cavorting—talk
about uploading images! There is news of births and deaths and illnesses
and accomplishments—all described fully and with competent involvement
and emotion—no LOLs, only true and passionate opinions and thoughts.
 And there is evidence of time spent in considering what the message would
include, carefully omitting sentiments and whinings that would only irritate
the recipient. And there was time to re-consider what the letter would contain,
since the ritual of folding, inserting, licking of envelope and stamp, sealing and
addressing, would provide a meditative break, time to change or make better
the message before it was posted.
.
And, perhaps most importantly, the letter-writer knew full well that the
contents of the envelope would serve as a permanent record, would be
re-opened and re-read for messages hidden or implied, would be shared
with others, would be placed with dozens of other letters in a lavender
box or bulging scrapbook, to be revisited down the generations, would
be a picture of that moment for all time, just as the Lascaux cave walls
are still probed and enjoyed, a mere 17,000 years later
 
© 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/whatchagot.mp3 or read on…

Back in times more drear than these, in times when I still believed

you had to work for uncaring bosses because there were never

enough caring bosses around…back in those times, I would dutifully

and extravagantly do my job to the best of my ability. In order to

maintain sanity, in order to nurture my concealed Muse, I would

compensate myself through the pleasure of books.

.

I can remember days when my jobs took me far afield. After doing

more than my share of work in a strange city, I would knock off and

search for old books in old bookstores. My recreation, my therapy.

.

Trolling for treasure was my private pleasure. I never dreamed I would

one day be dealing in artifacts for a living, so I just enjoyed the moment

and remained focused on my private hobby.

.

From the outside, an old bookstore was just that—a place that magically

appeared in my travels and allowed me to enjoy its existence. Once I left

the store, in many cases never to return, I assumed it would always be there

should I need it again.

.

In other words, I took old bookstores for granted.

.

Now, right here in the present, I am experiencing an old bookstore from

the inside out. Now, I see customers who remind me of the pre-bookstore-owner me.

.

Example:

.

A little girl is shopping with her dad and sisters, and it is obvious

that an old bookstore is a new experience for her. At one point, she

wanders over to me and asks, wide-eyed, “Those diaries over

there…did you know that people have written in some of them?” I

nod, speechless for a jiffy. “Why would you keep them here?” she asks.

.

My mouth, always speedier than my brain, quips, “Why would I keep

diaries that were not written in? I can’t imagine selling blank ones…except

to people who want to keep their own diaries.”

.

She looks back at the mailbox area where thousands of old letters and

postcards and scrapbooks and snapshots arrange themselves in a merry

jumble. She’s absorbing.

.

“And just think,” I do go on, “We have all these notes and love letters and

secrets that people kept a hundred years ago…and we keep them safe for

other people to read and appreciate. We’re paying our respects to the lives

they once led.”

.

I stop at this point, lest I preach too much.

.

She and her sister wind up reading some of the letters and showing them

to their father.

.

Later, she purchases a blank diary. What will happen next? You tell me.

.

Another example:

.

A woman who is spending a lot of time looking for books from a list

asks, “What would you have all these thirty-three-and-a-thirds here for?”

She is disdainful. “Why would you keep these?”

.

I get preachy again. “Because we sell them to people who love to listen to

them, who appreciate their wonderful sound.”

.

“You sell them? How can they play them?”

.

“We sell record players, too,” I answer.

.

She has to ponder this, never having considered that things she once

discarded from her own life might still be cherished by people living other lives.

.

One more example of how the urban bookstore I’m so used to seems alien to

first-time visitors:

.

“What are all those police doing out there? What happened?” An anxious customer

is a little flushed after being outside the store.

.

“Uh, what police?” I really am not aware that anything has “happened” outside but,

this being the City, I would not be surprised.

.

I go outside to see what’s up. There, standing and chatting and merrily smoking,

are the security guard from next door and the security guard from across the street.

I assume that something I see—and inhale—every day can be something odd and

troublesome to an outsider.

.

I re-enter the store. “Oh, it’s just a couple of security guards.” I put my

the-City-is-safer-than-you-think spin on it and continue, “that’s one of the

reasons the crime rate is so much lower than in the suburbs. Many buildings

have their own security, in addition to the downtown security force the regular

city police.”

.

The customer relaxes and gets busy amassing an enormous stack of old

American Rifleman magazines he covets. Maybe his memory of Downtown

will be a benevolent one.

.

And so on.

.

Each customer brings perceptions I can’t divine until they reveal themselves,

so I’m learning something new every few minutes. My customers are my

instructors, I their student.

.

I wonder whether they ever get as much out of these encounters as I do

.

http://www.jimreedbooks.com  

© 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/two-dollar_books.mp3 or read on…

THE SCIENTIFIC PROCESS OF MARKING BOOKS

DOWN TO $2.00 EACH

Today is Tuesday, March 15, just after everybody lost all memory for an hour on Sunday so that they forever wonder why they can’t remember how it got to be an hour later without their knowledge. Fortunately, some of them “get” it and realize that Daylight Savings Time did it to them—removed an hour of life and memory. Good news is, in a few months we’ll get that hour back and still won’t know how to put it to good use.

.

Where was I?

.

It’s Tuesday, almost opening-up-the-bookstore time. I’m preparing to roll the $2.00 book rack out to the sidewalk, hopefully to entice customers to pause in their onward rush, hoping to attract new customers, wishing folks would enter the store wanting to see even more.

.

I check the rack to see whether its holdings have grown stale. I remember a lesson learned decades ago in Green Bay, Wisconsin: “If you want your customers to think they are getting a good deal, give them an actual good deal!”

.

Are the bargains real? Well, there’s a first-edition Mark Childress (he just got on the New York Times bestseller list for the first time). So, that classifies as a good deal. There are Spider Man comic books of old—anyone who loves Spidey will like that. There’s a copy of Huckleberry Finn. Any price for Mark Twain is a bargain. There’s a how-to book on how to make your life perfect—if you object to the $2.00 cover charge you aren’t very motivated to rise from your misery, are you? Just guessing.

.

And so on…

.

I’ve now satisfied myself that the $2.00 books are worth much more than $2.00. Now, about the LP vinyl recordings for $2.00 each. There’s Louis Armstrong, Oscar Peterson, the Blackwood Bro’s, Lena Horne…need I say more? $2.00 for an hour with Satchmo beats any concert price I’ve ever paid, except for the times in my hometown that I gained free admittance to lectures and shows just because I was a reporter. I have fond memories of experiencing—and meeting—Andy Warhol, Dave Brubeck, Aldous Huxley, Carl Sandburg, the Kingston Trio, Bennett Cerf, Erskine Caldwell, and a plethora of celebrities who came to town in those long-ago years. All worth the price of admission.

.

Others I got to enjoy in person in later years include Gregory Peck, Marie and Donny Osmond, Vincent Price, Charles Laughton, Mel Torme, George Shearing, Ramsey Lewis, Fred Willard, Al Franken, Stan Kenton, Rich Little, Gay Talese, Buddy Rich, Milt Jackson, George Carlin, Quincy Jones, Oscar Peterson, PDQ Bach, Ella Fitzgerald, Ray Bradbury, Brian Aldiss, Edward O. Wilson, Bob Hope, and on and on.

.

I suppose this bookstore thing is all about me and my fond memories. But I also think it’s more than that. You see, selling their recordings and books and films is a way I can pass my appreciation of their talent—and my recollections—on to you. Listening to me go on and on is one thing, but the proof is in the reading, watching and hearing.

.

OK, so now I’ve assured myself that the bargains are bargains, I can in good conscience open the shop for business.

.

C’mon down

.

© 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/index.php

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/heel.mp3 or read on…

THE HEALING HEEL

.

I’m sitting at breakfast many decades ago, watching me watching my family.

Elementary School gathering, worried about what she’ll wear and how she’ll do.

.

Brother Ronny is helping Mother pack his lunch as he carefully picks over his food.

.

I’m grabbing for the next-to-last slice of bread from the wrapper on the table,

but one of the slices is the heel, so it doesn’t count. Everybody knows that the

heel is the most undesirable piece of light bread, and everybody avoids it. I

hesitate, unwilling to take the final non-heel slice, because Mother has taught

us never to take the last of anything. I decide I can do without bread this morning.

.

But Mother always notices everything—especially those things you wish she

wouldn’t notice. She quickly pulls both slices out of the wrapper, places the

“whole” one on my plate as if unconsciously, and starts buttering the heel for

herself. Or oleo margarine-ing it, to be more precise.

.

I sigh in relief and treat myself to a nice jellied sandwich to go with my

brown-sugared oatmeal and salt-and-peppered eggs, while Mother makes

do with the piece of bread nobody else will touch.

.

It is at this moment that I recognize the curse with which I will be saddled

the rest of my life. I can’t help seeing things. The small invisible camera

over my shoulder records everything—everything I wish to see, everything

I wish I’d never seen, everything I imagine I’m seeing, everything I wish

you could see, everything I’ve ever seen and will in time see. Other writers

and would-be writers have confirmed this curse with me—they have it, too

.

The jellied bread doesn’t taste quite as good as it should, because I recognize

my selfishness, and I recognize Mother’s sacrifice—one of a hundred small

sacrifices she’ll make on behalf of her family this week and most of the weeks

of her remaining life. My shoulder camera records more than I will ever be able

to write about—how Mother gives up part of her social life to raise her family,

how she denies herself a new dress and instead makes a dress for Barbara,

how she saves the flour sacks to make shirts for us boys, how she gives up

some of her own aspirations so that we can live ours.

.

Down all the days, wherever I travel, I and my camera keep noticing the

beauty of other mothers, other people, whenever they take one step back

to allow me my moment of stepping high, how they are there to help me

without even asking for or receiving credit, how they come and go from

my life with such grace and ease. How they never ask our thanks.

.

Mother constructed me, nurtured me, stood by while I fluttered from the

nest, then kept up with me and my accomplishments and tribulations for

many  years, waiting patiently until I was mature enough to appreciate her

aloud or in my writings.

.

Now she stands behind my camera, occasionally reminding me of her wisdoms,

now and then chiding me when I forget who I am and who I came from. And

she still grabs the heel first, just to gift me with one more small, unselfish

favor…hoping I’ll pass the wisdoms and favors on to others

.

©  2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

www.jimreedbooks.com

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/catfish.mp3 or read on…

MORNING ON CATFISH ROW

I’m plugging in the neon “open” sign in the bookshop window, preparing to begin the day’s business.

As I struggle putting the $2-book-and-record racks out on the sidewalk, I see Rhonda, just across the

street at Goodyear Shoe Hospital. Her red hair glows in the sun as she swishes her broom and spreads

the leaves and dust over the curb.

When was the last time I saw a banker sweeping up in front of his own bank?

I see Melissa next door at Sojourns hauling her A-frame sign and balancing it on the walkway, her smile

adding to the sunlight.

When was the last time I saw an attorney putting up a sign in front of his own office?

I pick up the many cigarette butts in front of my shop, left there by my customers and the employees of

Remon’s Clothier and the Massey Building.

When was the last time I saw a smoker dispose of a cigarette in the enormous City trash can on the

sidewalk?

I politely brush off a salesman who wants to examine my phone service records and credit card terminals

to give me a “better” deal.

When was the last time one of these salespeople actually took time to shop at the store? Do they realize

that I’ll give the time of day to any sales rep who will try to learn a little about my business and actually shop

here? The income they are missing!

A self-published author wants me to sell her new book in the store. When I show her my latest book, she

sniffs at it, puts it down and continues her sales pitch.

Will she ever understand why I turn her down?

The publisher of a small “literary” journal wants me to purchase copies for the shop but doesn’t bother to

open the Birmingham Arts Journal I proudly show him.

Has he ever heard of tit for tat?

I go about opening up and operating my sidewalk shop in much the same way each day, pretty much repeating

my motions—with variations. Since some kind of civilization began, I suppose the rituals have been similar—we

bazaar vendors have our routines, routines that keep us grounded, routines our customers come to expect of us.

And we also have always dealt with non-customers who want a favor given without giving a favor.

Much of each day is spent providing free advice and consultation to people who want to know the “value” of a

book or those who want me to research and find an obscure title—then turn me down, saying, “Oh now that

you’ve helped me find it, I’ll just go online and order it myself.” No kidding!

Much of my social life is spent listening to folks promising me that they will someday visit Reed Books—they’ve

heard so much about it, you know—but who, year after year, never come in.

I just chuckle and go about my business.

What sustains me during all this rejection?

You do. You sustain me.

You are the customer who shops and enjoys and purchases. You are the customer who returns to the shop,

bringing friends and family. You are the customer who gives me thumbs-up reports on Facebook and Twitter

and other social media. You are the customer who “gets” it—you get the fact that I’m here providing a service

that only 60 years of experience can provide.

You are the customer who remembers to thank me for Being Here, just after I thank you for Shopping Here.

You are the customer who appreciates the fact that I’m still in business.

You are my sustenance

© 2011 A.D.

www.jimreedbooks.com

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/popeye.mp3 or read on…

THE BOY WHO LIKED SPINACH

Spinach was the un-coolest thing I could imagine placing in my mouth,

way back when I was a whippersnapper.

Adults would tell me all sorts of things that made spinach even less attractive:

“Eat your spinach—it’s good for you!”

I don’t want to be good because I eat spinach. Aren’t there lots of other ways to be good?

“Why, spinach will give you loads of iron to make you big and strong.”

I don’t want to eat anything filled with chunks of iron. What if they

rust? Besides, I’ll pass on being big and strong. Small and wiry and

elusive sound more survivable to me.

“You just love Popeye the Sailorman—and he eats his spinach!”

What’s Popeye’s mailing address? I can send him my serving.

Besides, Popeye is kind of creepy—it’s Olive Oyl I lust after.

“Here, let me cook the spinach with slices of boiled egg—that’ll make it real good.”

Great, now even boiled eggs taste like spinach.

And so on. My silent protests and unspoken wisecracks rose up whenever

anybody tried to force an idea on me. Actually, I’m like that to this day.

Then, one day, when no-one was looking, I decided to actually try some

spinach—just to prove to myself that I really hated it. The empty can of Popeye

brand spinach lay hidden in the garbage pail. One serving was left on the platter

at the family dining table, the table that I was in charge of clearing off (back then,

kids actually had chores to perform). I grabbed a forkful of the mushy, over-cooked

substance and stuffed my mouth.

It tasted good!

Holy Smokes, I thought. What have I been missing!

From that day forth, I ate my spinach, but, in order to save face, and in order

to smugly lord it over my younger siblings, I never explained how I had discovered

that spinach was edible. I relished it while they sat staring at me as if I were a brown

shoe floating in a punch bowl.

Being a natural-born contrarian allows me to learn new stuff every day. Right now

I’m eyeing that serving of sushi that’s on the menu. Gulp.

Well, maybe, at least for today, I’ll skip the contrarian thing

© 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/book_people.mp3 or read on…

BOOK PEOPLE, PEOPLE BOOKS

 Closing Time falls on the City and creeps into the haunted bookshop.

As the Security Guard at Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories, I roam the aisles

and crannies now and then, looking high and low for books in need of attention.

Just under a high ledge, near the large poster of  Martin Luther King Jr., a copy  of 

Up From Slavery slants  too much—if you leave it  in that position for long, you’ll

get a warped  sense of history—so I straighten it.

Across from Dr. King, on a high shelf, Sir Walter Scott lolls about, his volumes

fairly bursting at the seams with conflict, violence, passion and mystery. He stays
high up  because his leather bindings are fragile.

A few feet away from Dr. King and Sir Walter grins Fannie Flagg, just waiting

to be howled at, her stories of too-real people too funny to believe—unless you

live Down Here. Wonder if she’s kin to the Sweet Potato Queen? The Queen’s

poster and books are on the far side of the store, as are the Far Side books.

Three books in the Alabama section have been rudely displaced, their spines

turned toward the backs of the shelves, making it annoying to have to turn them

outward to see their titles. I just sigh and become the Lone Rearranger.

I move Judith Krantz out of the Philosophy section, where someone has

abandoned her, and I make sure Philosophy is visible before the customer

can locate the nearby Equestrian section. (I always put Descartes before the horse.)

The old Life Magazines with cover photos sporting the faces of Marilyn Monroe

and Charles Manson and Winston Churchill and Tony Curtis are re-stacked neatly

so that I at least can find them again.

The Mystery-Thriller shelves are author-alphabetized these days, broken only by

a section devoted to Bondage (books and other material related to James Bond).

Louisa Mae Alcott and Anais Nin are kept separate, as are the Hardy Boys and

Dracula, Ronald Reagan and Karl Marx, Daffy Duck and Jerry Lewis. What

could go wrong if they all partied when I’m not around?

Anyhow, I, the Security Guard, do a little dusting, shelve a few more orphans,

pack something up to take home and read, dampen the 40 lights, secure the

door, and head for my own little literary nest, giving the enormous variety of

personalities and doctrines and misspent lives and productive thoughts and

humorous outlooks a chance to breathe on their own, for at least a series

of moments in time

© Jim Reed 2011 A.D.

www.jimreedbooks.com

MR. ZESTY PANTS RIDES AGAIN

Q&A for Reed Books’ owner, Jim Reed

Q: Reed Books will soon begin its 41st year of operation. Looking back, why did you create this business?

A: I had no choice. My previous career had me stalled out and burned out. It was time to do something good for a change.

Q: I sense that you do not consider Reed Books to be a business.

A: You sensed correctly. This job is literally a calling for me, as corny as that might sound. I feel I’m providing a public service to the community and to the world at large.

Q: How so?

A: I am rescuing orphans and foster children  (books and artifacts) from certain perdition, and giving them new life. I adopt them, clean them up, put them in a safe place and house them comfortably until new adoptive parents come along to find and purchase them. Somebody’s got to do it, so it may as well be me. I could have become a priest or an activist or a true believer, but this, it turns out, is what I know how to do best.

Q: You must have a lot of energy to spare. I notice that you also write books and columns and stories about your life in Alabama.

A: I don’t know whether it’s called energy, or just a continuing and compelling need to tell my story, my stories—just in case somebody’s paying attention. All my writings are about my life and the lives of those around me, and my mixed feelings about these lives.

Q: Where do these stories show up?

A: I do a “blast” and a facebook entry and a tweet each week, for anybody who wishes to receive it. I write a  blog release a podcast for fans. I publish a book now and then when it seems the best way to communicate to a particular audience; and I speak to any group of people who will have me, about my excitements—my love of writing and collecting and communicating. That does sound like a lot of activity, doesn’t it?

Q: It’s hard to keep up with…so let’s focus on your love of Downtown Birmingham and your simultaneous love of Reed Books and the Museum of Fond Memories. Where does that come from?

A: I’m not sure I can answer that question in a traditional way. I write poetic prose because I see things poetically. So, for what it’s worth, here’s the gist of it: I am the center of my Universe. Each of us is the center of our own personal Universe. Therefore, Downtown Birmingham is the center of the Universe, because that’s where I spend most of my time.

Now, stay with me: In order to survive in my personal Universe, I have to take care of it, nurture it and respect it. I do this because my Universe is Me and I am It. I’m passionate about this Universe and everything that it contains—customers, friends, fellow Downtown denizens, panhandlers, city workers, the streets and avenues, the traffic, the chaos, the laughable politics of it all. This is my world and it is most entertaining!

Q: So you disagree with those who have given up on Birmingham, those who tell us to turn out the lights and leave it to its own fate?

A: Of course I disagree with this. That would be like giving up on yourself, your Universe. I’m disdainful of those who criticize without celebrating the beauty of the city and its people, when we could all be standing together and protecting this gorgeous creation, this Magic City of real people.

Q: For someone who has never visited Reed Books, exactly what is it that you sell?

A: We sell memories, and we sell the objects that evoke those memories.

Q: Can you give some examples?

A: When you see our display of elementary school readers, the moment you spot the ones you had as a child, you will be transported back into time. For instance, we carry original Dick and Jane (and Sally) readers, Blue Back Spellers, McGuffey Readers, Elson Readers, Landmark series books, Childhood of Famous Americans books, and so on.

Q: What about non-school books that grown-up children still love?

A: Sure! We have original books starring Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys and Trixie Belden and Five Little Peppers and Bobbsey Twins and Boxcar Children and Uncle Wiggily and the Wizard of Oz and Alice in Wonderland and Tom Swift and the Happy Hollister, and on and on and on.

Q: I thought those books had disappeared forever.

A: That’s part of the fun of being Reed Books. Everything you thought your Mother had thrown away, we carry! If you believe it’s out of date, it’s here—because we believe that nothing is ever out of date. It’s at the shop, waiting for you to re-discover it.

Q: You can’t possibly carry everything that’s no longer popular!

A: Try us! We have new books and old books—some dated as recently as 2020, some

dated as far back as 1579. And the beautiful thing is, we’ve been in business for so long that we can obtain any old book that’s not on our shelves at the moment. We know where all the other old-time bookdealers are, and they provide us with loads of goodies. We live in the past and love it!

Q: OK, so you really do have every book known to humankind, or you can obtain it by request. But what about all the non-book items in the store? Why do you carry them?

A: Everything in the store serves as a memory-stimulator, a fantasy-evoker.

When you find an old dial telephone, you are immediately reminded of old times

and old reading material that surrounded that phone. When you see a Roy Rogers

comic book or a photograph of Birmingham’s old train terminal building, you get the

urge to go back in time and regain your old teddy bear or your copy of A Child’s Garden of Verses or The Little Engine That Could or Goodnight Moon. All these objects serve as time machines, and Reed Books is a safe haven you can use to travel back and forth in time.

Q: I understand remembering the past, but how do you wax nostalgic about the future?

A: We have great science fiction and fantasy fiction and adventure fiction, much of which takes place in the future—authors such as Ray Bradbury and Isaac Asimov and Robert Heinlein and Shirley Jackson will escort you to alternate futures, utopias and dystopias…the kind you read about when you were young.

Q: I think I get it. You’re saying you’ve invented a shop that can take you anywhere your imagination, your memory, allows you to go?

A: I’ve been tempted to place an arched sign over the doorway that reads

“Abandon hopelessness all ye who enter here.” Or maybe, “Sanctuary!”

Q: Do you consider yourself to be a retiree?

A: Land O’ Goshen! I’m not retired, nor will I ever retire willingly. I’ll keep going till they drag me off to the assisted living center or the morgue. I’m from a workaholic family–my father kept on working, career after career, and I can’t see myself sitting at home and watching daytime television. I haven’t found time to retire. Besides, I have to make a living!

Q: What else is in Reed Books’ future?

A: I’ve always wanted to do a Dead Writers signing, since most of the writers we sell lived long ago. I haven’t gotten any replies to my e-mails, though.

Q: What’s the most exciting item in the store?

A: The latest artifact I acquired is the most exciting one. Each acquisition gives me a new rush and teaches me something I didn’t know.

Q: Why would I want to purchase an old book or a used one, when I can obtain a freshly-printed one at a chain store?

A: I actually don’t know why you would want to do that. An early printing of a book has gravitas, its pages have absorbed something of its previous owners, it now possesses

character and lovely battle scars. When you hold a used book, you are communicating with the past regrets and future fears of its owners, their joys and sorrows, their lives, for goodness sake. And you’re not really a green advocate, an environmentalist, until you’ve learned to pass your book on to its next readers.

Trashing or throwing a book away instead of bequeathing it to a new reader is a sin. Period

(c) 2020 A.D. by Jim Reed