THINK ON THESE THINGS
A great way to discover and re-discover ideas and artifacts is to catalog them.
At the shop, I’m placing an enormous amount of sheet music online, to go
with the other 47,000 items already listed. This way, if you’re looking for
lyrics to a song that keeps running amuck in your head, you can go to Reed
Books’ website and enter the title. If it pops up, that means I have it in the
Shop and can pull it from the archives for you to peruse and purchase.
Today’s trove of songs produces a little tune I’d almost forgotten, from the
musical SOUTH PACIFIC.
It’s a blatant and poignant diatribe against bigotry, intolerance, racism and ignorance.
Well worth reading:
You’ve got to be taught to hate and fear.
You’ve got to be taught from year to year.
It’s got to be drummed in your dear little ear.
You’ve got to be carefully taught.
You’ve got to be taught to be afraid
Of people whose eyes are oddly made,
And people whose skin is a diff’rent shade,
You’ve got to be carefully taught.
You’ve got to be taught before it’s too late,
Before you are six or seven or eight,
To hate all the people your relatives hate,
You’ve got to be carefully taught!
–Oscar Hammerstein II & Richard Rodgers
You can’t get much more specific and un-subtle than this,
and it’s such a nice surprise in the middle of an otherwise
sentimental musical. It reminds me of my favorite Shel
Silverstein poem about the same subject. Read on:
NO DIFFERENCE
Small as a peanut,
Big as a giant,
We’re all the same size
When we turn off the light.
Rich as a sultan,
Poor as a mite,
We’re all worth the same
When we turn off the light.
Red, black or orange,
Yellow or white,
We all look the same
When we turn off the light.
So maybe the way
To make everything right
Is for God to just reach out
And turn off the light!
–Shel Silverstein
End of today’s morality thoughts.
It’s good to contemplate these things once in a
while…even better to think about them every day…
even best to practice them
© 2010 A.D. by Jim Reed
Category Archives: Uncategorized
ARE YOU A FRAIDY CAT? WATCH OUT FOR THIS BOOK!
THIS WEEK’S RECOMMENDED BOOK IS ONE
YOU CAN’T PUT DOWN, PROVIDED YOU REALLY, REALLY READ IT STRAIGHT THROUGH…
IF YOU ALLOW THE STORY TO CARRY YOU ALONG…
IF YOU SUSPEND ALL JUDGEMENT TILL THE LAST PAGE,
YOU’LL HAVE QUITE A RIDE.
You’ll never find this bestseller on the New York Times bestseller list, but it’s a book that will stay with you the rest of your life…a book that hasn’t been out of print for more than a century.
In keeping with the month of Halloween, this is one to scare you:
Once you’ve read the scariest books ever written, Halloween is never over, and you are never the same.
NOW READ THIS:
Dracula by Bram Stoker
(“As the Count leaned over me and his hands touched me, I could not repress a shudder…”)
Bram Stoker published this wonderfully wicked and terrifying novel at about the same time another horror story was being published: The War of the Worlds, by H.G. Wells. Yes, both books are horror stories with villains never before seen in 19th-Century literature.
DRACULA is particularly suspenseful because it takes place in real places, places you can find on the map to this day. The extended train ride that young Jonathan Harker takes to meet Count Dracula is horrible enough—Stoker makes sure you have indigestion and a sense of foreboding long before anything really creepy happens. You’ll see what I mean.
READ AND CRINGE!
© 2010 A.D. by Jim Reed
ANOTHER SCARY BOOK YOU CAN’T PUT DOWN
THIS WEEK’S BOOK YOU CAN’T PUT DOWN
I recommend another book you’ll never find on the New York Times bestseller list, but a book that will stay with you the rest of your life.
In keeping with the month of Halloween, this is one to scare you:
Once you’ve read the scariest books ever written, Halloween is never over, and you are never the same.
NOW READ THIS:
The scariest book I ever read: Castaway by James Gould Cozzens, published in 1934.
I don’t know why every teacher of literature, every writing instructor, isn’t assigning this book to students who are interested in really writing scary, writing well. This book leaves a lifetime impression and may even defy categorization. It could be called a horror story, though nothing really supernatural occurs. It could be called a dark fantasy, but there are no levitations or spells or exploding heads. It could be termed a remarkable work of avant-garde fiction, but nothing about it is pretentious. It might be a mystery, but it’s even hard to define what’s mysterious about it.
I won’t reveal more, because I want you to read it for yourself. Let’s just say it’s the story of a man trapped in a department store. Let’s just say it might be a re-telling of Robinson Crusoe. Let’s just say it’s a survivalist tale, a morality tale. Let’s just say it will stick with you.
The amazement of books such as this is that one short line can make you jump, can make your neck-hairs stand on end, can bring chills…
(“What he would do if he heard it, Mr. Lecky did not know. In despairing anticipation he feared to hear as much as he feared not hearing anything. To be pursued and know it was hardly better than to be pursued and not know it…”)
READ AND CRINGE!
© 2010 A.D. by Jim Reed
THIS WEEK’S BOOK YOU CAN’T PUT DOWN
THIS WEEK’S BOOK YOU CAN’T PUT DOWN
I recommend a book you’ll never find on the
New York Times bestseller list, but a book that will stay
with you the rest of your life.
In keeping with the month of Halloween, this is
one to scare you:
Once you’ve read the scariest books ever written,
Halloween is never over, and you are never the same.
NOW READ THIS:
Nightmare Alley by William Lindsay Gresham
(“How do you get to be a geek?
I can’t understand how anybody can get so low.”)
William Lindsay Gresham’s novel about the dark edges
of carnival life was written from his experiences
with magic (he knew Harry Houdini)
and midway life. The film, starring
Tyrone Power, is equally dark and kind
of oblique. One thing is sure—you’ll
never use the term geek carelessly again.
What a geek is will haunt you for years.
READ AND CRINGE!
THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN TIME ZONES
THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN TIME ZONES
Clock # 1
It is dark outside. I know this because the bedroom in which
I lie abed is dark. The alarm clock alarms me at six o’clock
sharp and I reach over to slap it quiet. Now I can snooze a
bit, just to enjoy the quiet morning—the quiet morning that is
interrupted by the dumpster truck right outside my window,
collecting the contents of an overflowing bin. It’s still nice to
lie here.
By the time I glance at the slapped clock, it’s seven a.m. and
time to hop barefoot onto the hardwood floor and flatfoot my
way to the bathroom, where I discover that it’s actually 7:10 a.m.
Clock # 2
In this, the second time zone of my morning, I must shower ten
minutes faster, brush my teeth ten minutes faster, do everything
else ten minutes faster to make up for the time difference between
bedroom and bathroom. I even listen to NPR twice as fast,
thus retaining little of what is broadcast at me. At 7:35 a.m.,
I descend the creaking stairs and evolve into the kitchen, where
the sink clock stares 7:25 a.m. at me.
Clock # 3
I take a deep breath, slow down a bit, and try to compensate
for the speed-up time-warp I’ve just put myself through. Make
coffee for Liz. Prepare my lunch. Pack my book bag.
Find my keys—oops, they are right here in my pocket.
By the time I’m ready to face the front door, I take one
last look at the sink clock, which grins 7:55 a.m. at me.
I dash into the yard, throw baggage into the front seat,
hop in, grab my seat belt, crank the engine, and note
that the clock radio reads 7:45 a.m.
Clock # 4
I won’t really know what time it is till I’m at the shop,
where the computer will report Central Standard Naval
Observatory Time. When the work day is done, I head home
and time-travel in reverse. Liz’s computer clock reports a
different time than my computer clock. Am I late or am I early?
Clock # 5
The cable TV clock reports that it’s 6:05 p.m., so I know
I’ll not have to worry about time till it’s Jon Stewart time
at 10 p.m. Nothing else to watch on TV. In Liz’s art studio, the
clock later that evening tells me in no uncertain terms that it’s
9:45 p.m. Time to go upstairs and do the Daily Show ritual.
When I arrive in the library, where TV screen stares blankly at
me, I notice that the TV clock says it’s only 9:40 p.m. Now I
have to stare at a lot of partial shows and commercials during
twenty minutes of mindless clicking, till Jon appears. After my
evening viewing habit is satisfied, I head for the bathroom, where
the clock reads 10:29 p.m.
Clock # 6
Once back abed, I look over at the clock that started
everything and note that the time is 10:45 p.m. But in
my head, where my circadian clock runs wild, it feels like
midnight.
Tossing and turning, I eventually get up for some water and
notice that the other clock, the one on Liz’s side of the bed,
is ten minutes faster than mine.
Clock # 7
I finally get to sleep, but who knows at what time and for how
long before the bedside alarm alarms me once again
© 2010 A.D. by Jim Reed
www.jimreedbooks.com
IN MY SOUTH, WHAT IT IS IS WHAT IT IS
IN MY SOUTH…
*Socrates (SEW-crates) and Socrates (SAH-cruh-tees)
are the same person.
*Arab (A-rabb) is a place and Arab (EH-rubb) is a person.
*Geezers are sexy.
IN MY SOUTH…
*People just come right out with it.
*We scratch when and where it itches.
*A speed limit is a suggestion.
IN MY SOUTH…
*Accumulating makes more sense than collecting.
*We pretty much want to be wherever we are—and
don’t you rush it!
*Dentists hand out lollipops.
IN MY SOUTH…
*We admire women who spit and pick their teeth in public.
*Spitting and picking your teeth in public is mandatory.
*Chawing and kissing can go right together.
IN MY SOUTH…
*You can wear a tie to go to lunch, but you have
to leave your jacket at the office.
*You never allow guests to leave your home without
escorting them to the car and chatting for another fifteen minutes.
*Y’all is both singular and plural.
And so it goes. In my South, the only place I’ve ever lived, local folks and
local customs and local habits continue to amaze me and make me feel right
at home. What would it be like to live anywhere else? You tell me
© 2010 A.D. by Jim Reed
www.jimreedbooks.com
THE JOY IN MY JOB
THE JOY IN MY JOB
Most of my daily activity at Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories
consists of listening to people and often referring them to other trusted
merchants and institutions.
This is a free service, so you can understand why I seem grateful
whenever someone actually purchases something.
A typical day at the shop frequently includes happenings such as these:
A customer tearfully recalls how much the “stuff” at Reed Books reminds
her of the “stuff” she owns, and of her lost family. She smiles, reminiscing
through tears.
Visitors from Tennessee, staying at the Tutwiler Hotel, remark on Birmingham’s
beauty. They love the bookstore and the streets. I wish Birmingham natives
could see the city’s beauty through most visitors’ eyes.
A little girl reads and collects Nancy Drew books. We chat about Nancy’s
resourcefulness, determination, elegance, intelligence, wit—and wish our
favorite movers and shakers possessed these qualities.
Two young women want an inexpensive place to eat. I send them to the
New York Deli around the corner.
Two more women want images of old Birmingham to display at the Greenbriar
retirement facility. I send them on their way to What’s On Second, a block
or two over.
A scruffy gruff non-customer is looking for a cigar store. I send him to the new
store on Second Avenue that replaced the mysterious Bohemian Grocer.
One customer wants a reading lamp—not antique or expensive. I send him to
Standard Furniture Company, which has been across the street for most
of a century.
A street guy is trying to sell a pair of snakeskin boots. I refer him to Goodyear
Shoe Hospital across the way, which has also been there for nearly one hundred
years. Maybe Rhonda will know what to tell him.
Tourists are looking for things to do and places to shop in Birmingham—they
don’t believe the staff at the Redmont Hotel, who told them
there was nothing to do Downtown. I excitedly tell them all the
wonderful things to do and places to go Downtown, and send them
first to Sojourns, Melissa’s fair trade import gift shop next door.
They return later, thanking me for giving them a great day.
A New England publisher calls and wants to vet a manuscript about the 1963
Birmingham horrors. I send him to Dr. Glenn Feldman, my son-in-law, who is
a scholar of the Civil Rights Era.
One customer wants the exact lighted Santa Claus toy he had as a child, and I
find him one on the internet. He is so excited I fear he will faint.
A young woman brings in a bag of books her aged father wants her to sell. My
offer is generous, but the father has inflated ideas of the books’ worth. She
pleasantly packs the books and patiently totes them back home.
A customer donates a bag of DVD films. She knows I won’t throw them away.
Two women bring in double bags of useless textbooks and donate them. I politely
express my gratitude, then quietly donate them to the Salvation Army Thrift Store,
so that they won’t have to lug them a couple of blocks back to their car.
In the early afternoon, it begins to rain, so I patiently bring in the book rack and
record rack, so that my precious cargo won’t get wet.
PS: I actually sold some items today. I realize that the price of being in this
business is voluntary service as bartender, coach and triage manager.
Making an income is in there somewhere
© 2010 A.D. by Jim Reed
THESE ARE MY PEOPLE
THESE ARE MY PEOPLE
Navigating the day, peripheral vision picks up things
I can’t help but notice.
I notice the people who file through my life. This
relentless attribute has followed me since I was a mere lad.
There are disadvantages to noticing much more than
I need to notice, but the advantages, oh the advantages,
far outweigh the disadvantages.
These are my people. They don’t know it, and I don’t
know why…but these are my people.
Many Birmingham curbs are knocked down for the convenience
of handicapped and elderly and wounded pedestrians. Many
Birmingham curbs are not knocked down, and there is no apparent
logic to how curbs are selected.
One citizen I see is the knock-down curb-avoidance
swollen-ankle brown-legal-folder-woman on her
pain-free descent into incomplete city street engineering.
She carries her burden to the curb, notices that there’s
no ramp, and carefully circles ‘round to the next curb,
which is smoothed down. Every step is taken gingerly,
to avoid as much pain as possible.
One customer at Reed Books always catches me in the midst of his own
monologue. He enters the store in mid-sentence and never stops chatting till
he leaves minutes later—or scores of minutes later. He needs to know that I
am listening to him, and I, the bartender, do my best to continue my work while
paying attention to him. He seems happier when he leaves.
Then there’s the one-foot-wheelchair racer who tries to dodge the traffic while
scooting his one undamaged foot on the sidewalk, creating a manual scooter
that helps him go faster than mere arms or wheels allow. Later, I see the
straining-wheelchair-couple attempting to navigate and avoid four lanes of
oncoming traffic while frantically pushing their big wheels with muscular arms.
They make it safely across, and we the traffickers politely slow down to allow
their passage.
As I drive the automatic asphalt lanes, sweet music from the radio brings peace
prior to mayhem. My mind is momentarily settled.
Amazement # 456: I see a woman on her way to work who isn’t using a cell phone!
Who isn’t texting. Who isn’t primping in the rear view mirror. Who isn’t day dreaming.
Amazing amazement! What’s her problem?
The lone childshoe lies on its side in the median. From a one-legged child? From a
two-legged child with only one shoe? Is it a fugitive shoe that got away from its mate
on purpose? A purposely discarded shoe? An object thrown in anger? Something that
fell off a truck? The lone childshoe deposits its own unanswered mystery as I drive past.
The long cyclist-slope-inertia-ride takes place before me. The bicycle takes advantage
of a long incline to pick up speed and churn the rider’s stomach in exaltation. Hope he
makes it safely to wherever.
The retired majorette still wears her majorette outfit and makeup and the memory of
twirling rests visibly upon her shoulder and on her glossy scarlet-lipsticked lips.
She purchases an old book on how to become a majorette and proudly tells me about
her majorette days long past but ever present.
She joins my family without her knowledge.
These are my people. They don’t know it, and I don’t know
why…but these are my people
--Jim Reed © 2010 A.D.
HOW TO BECOME YOUR OWN BOOK: Exercise #1
Begin every written work with this preamble:
Are you my word?
Are you The Word?
Whose word are you if not mine?
How did you get on this page?
Were you invited?
Can I get rid of you?
Oops!
Too late.
Now, what will I do with you
© 2010 A.D. by Jim Reed
THE MAGICAL CVS AUTOMATIC DOOR WAND
THE MAGICAL CVS AUTOMATIC DOOR WAND
The thousands upon thousands of children’s storybooks that merrily surround customers at Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories count for nothing when pitted against the creative and spontaneous imagination of children left to their own magical meanderings.
I’m in front of this particular CVS store, one that sports those automatic sliding aluminum-and-glass doors, doors that open and close depending upon who or what triggers the electric eye that never blinks.
Only the small girl standing inside near the door has no inkling of what makes these doors open and close, so when she moves near them in order to go outside, they quickly and Star Trekkily whoosh open. She stands looking up at the doors in abject wonder and surprise and backs away to get a better look. This causes the doors to whoosh closed, thus making the little girl in the red dress freeze in her tracks in an attempt to figure things out.
She’s temporarily unsupervised, so at this exact moment, she exists only in her self-made world and must bravely use her own mind without the stiff intervention of adults. Her eyebrows go up, an idea pops like a light bulb above her head, and she decides that she possesses magical powers, just like those magical powers that characters in her storybooks use.
She waves her magic-wand arms toward the doors and they open. Now, she has proof that the Power is hers! She backs off to survey her tiny kingdom, and the doors close again. She jumps up and down, claps her hands and smiles Cheshire-like into the morning air.
The adults around her do not notice her drama, and she tentatively repeats it now and then.
Just as suddenly as it all began, the little red-dress girl is pulled by her adult companion towards the rear of the store, and the magical spell is broken.
Only she and I know that we just witnessed a miracle that nobody else will ever understand quite the way we understand it
© Jim Reed 2010 A.D.