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A word here, a word there—it adds up.

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Some are born editing, some try to become editors, some need editing, some editors need editing.

It’s in my DNA, I suppose. I’m in the born-editing category, and most of my family have this affliction, too.

Possessing the editing syndrome means I’m never bored. Everywhere I go, there are wondrous words, signs, sentences, paragraphs, tomes, graffiti, names, phrases—and each has its own story, its own mysterious genealogy and chronology and biography.

I’m in the Middle of Nowhere, Georgia, reading a local weekly newspaper in the lobby of an unnamed motel. It’s graduation week and all the local graduates are listed by name and photograph. This is big news in a small town, and I wish it would once more become big news in big towns, too.

Graduate names include Destiny, Arvestus, Kadijah, Gabriel, Chetavious, Ecstasy, Markenique, and a plethora of additional traditional and made-up monikers. Only name missing is Moniker Lewinsky, but that’s another story—and a bad joke, too. Anyhow, the smiling faces of these graduates emanate from such places as the Gatewood Academy for Sparkly White Kids, the Nathaneal Green Academy for Privileged Caucasians and the like, plus a healthy sprinkling of public schools with eclectic and diverse blends of students. It’s a merry mix, a cross-section of America that reveals itself in alphabetical relationships. Lots of students who probably would never be seen next to each other in real life are juxtaposed side by side in this graduation ritualized order. Hope it’s not the only time they will be stirred together in friendly amalgams. Some even get to be valedictorians and salutatorians, words I’m certain they will never, ever use in casual conversation for the rest of their lives—not counting bursts of bragging. I’d love to have been the class stentorian announcer.

Continuing my journey from neverland to somewhereland, I listen to an old pre-TV radio mystery show with the wonderful line, “She was wearing a gown that started at the floor and ended unexpectedly.” What a great piece of writing! Appears in a story “The Big Money” by Phillip Andrews. I would not edit that sentence one whit—or even two whits.

I miss the old writing. Notice how nobody every slakes a thirst anymore? Maybe they quench, but slaking is definitely out of fashion.

Then at the airport I see a sign that includes the usage VEHICLE OWNER’S and in the same sentence, VEHICLE’S OWNER’S. Stretching a point, both are actually correct—just clumsy. It’s a true American tradition to misuse apostrophes in liberal amounts, but these accidentally are almost OK.

 Anyhow, I’m always stimulated by words, and I’m forever grateful whenever leaving behind yet another Motel Hell I’ve been forced to occupy—this most recent one with the slanted squishy-bottomed shower for the balance-impaired and the complimentary continental breakfast which was efficiently removed (perhaps shipped back to the Continent) a few seconds after I entered the dining area to break my fast…and the side-entrance doorlocks that never worked.

Free at last, I’m on the highway again, reading the signs and listening to the words, words, words that frame my life

(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

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Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the End of the Story

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What got me started on this column was the annoying notion that many folks pay little attention to process and focus their interest solely on the next thing.

One reader begins a book, loses interest, scans a few pages, then reads the last page, puts it aside and reports that that was a pretty good read. I find many a partially-read book at the Museum of Fond Memories.

In a movie theatre, I’m seated early to catch the previews, get a good seat, watch the animated logos and titles and credits and prepare myself for a good story…then sit past the ending till all the crawls have, well, crawled away. This is becoming more difficult to do, since moviegoers often chaotically come in during the first few scenes, try to find a seat, block the view of those behind them, chat loudly to their entourage, even go so far as to ask us early-arrivers to move down two seats so they can get their gear into the row—guaranteeing that I’ll have to sit behind one large guy nicknamed Booger, who has two tubs of popcorn and a supersize-gulper spread across two seats while his companion texts and giggles, never once looking at the screen.

Then, while the final scene is gearing up for the emotional punch, some moviegoers start rising, gathering their life’s belongings, stretching to occlude the screen, and generally making snarky remarks to one another while the credits disappear from my view.

Would these same people read a book, skipping the first chapter entirely and tearing out the last two pages before reading them, then report that they had read the book?

At a poetry reading, I count 35%  of the crowd gazing into their laps, texting, googling, looking up missed call numbers. Are the poets chopped liver?

Maybe we could found a nudist movie theatre/lecture hall/reading room where attendees are not allowed to bring anything with them except their attention. Would we then have a crowd of people who actually heard the story, saw the story, appreciated the story as it was meant to be received? Or would we just have a roomful of naked people who can’t wait to leave and do something important, something truncated and incomplete and quite bereft of meaning?

There, I said it and I’m glad. Since you haven’t bothered to read down to the last line, I don’t think you’ll get to appreciate this wonderful quote from Confucius: “By the time a man begins to smell himself, everybody else has been smelling him for three days.”

Sorry for all this—every year or two, I just gotta do a rant

(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

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So long, baby sister

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ROSI

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Rose Mari (Rosi) Reed, a native of Tuscaloosa, Alabama, died on June 17, 2012 at the age of 61.  She had resided in Columbia, SC since 1998 and was the daughter of the late James Thomas (Tom) Reed II and Frances Lee McGee Reed of Tuscaloosa.

 Ms. Reed graduated from Northington Elementary School and Tuscaloosa High School, and attended the University of Alabama.  A talented artist and craftsperson, she was a consummate film buff and an active member of the Alabama Wildlife Rescue Center while residing in Alabama.  Rose Mari loved opera, ballet and 60′s rock ‘n roll.  She played clarinet and piano.  Her passions were archaeology, anthropology and helping injured and helpless wildlife.  She was a Girl Scout from elementary through high school.  Rose was baptized at Forest Lake Baptist Church in Tuscaloosa.

Rose Mari’s employers in Alabama were Alford Screen Printing, Warrior Screen Printing and Pier One Imports.  She worked at Sears while attending the University of Alabama. In Birmingham, she was employed by Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories.

 

Rose recently said that her favorite place to work in Columbia was Graph-itti T-Shirts, Inc.  She had worked at Graph-itti for six years and planned to retire in 2016 at age 65.  She embroidered sports and business clothing using computerized sewing machines.

 

Rose Mari loved Halloween, Christmas, birthdays and any other excuse to have a party.  She was shy and quiet with strangers. Those who were fortunate enough to know her, met a humble, kind, sensitive and intelligent person.  

She is survived by sister Barbara Jean Reed Partrich, Columbia, SC, and brothers James Thomas (Jim) Reed III, Birmingham, AL; Ronald Lee (Ronny) Reed, Houston, TX; Timothy Ray (Tim) Reed, Chattanooga, TN; eight nieces and nephews and eleven grandnieces and grandnephews in Alabama, Texas, South Carolina and Idaho.

“Knowing Rose Mari was worth the effort it took to break through the shyness. When she spoke of subjects and people she loved, her face and voice came alive. She was knowledgeable and-well read, but kept opinions to herself unless asked for. She listened and noticed things most people missed. I loved conversations with Rosi. She has left an irreplacable space in my home and heart.” –Barbara Reed Partrich

 

 

Rose Mari’s family requests that in lieu of flowers, donations may be made

to:

Alabama Wildlife Rescue Center

100 Terrace Drive

Oak Mountain State Park

Pelham, Alabama

         or

www.awrc.org.donate

(c) 2012 A.D. by Barbara Reed Partrich and Jim Reed

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THE INVENTION OF THE TELEPHONE CORD

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A phone is ringing somewhere in the house, but I can’t find it. Sounds a little muffled and a bit other-roomish, so I’m scrounging around, hoping to answer it before I lose the caller.

I feel about under sofa cushions and beneath the armoire and move things around on the coffee table (I don’t drink coffee, so why do I call it that?), scan the foyer, look for lumps in the rugs and comforters, check jacket pockets, and…well, you may  be familiar with the routine. I don’t find the phone, so it’s adrift until I get another call, or until—wait!  It suddenly occurs to me why I bother to own both a cell phone and a wireless landline phone. Two systems exist for the sole purpose of each finding the other.

I go to the car, fetch the phone, call the home number, go back into the house and renew my efforts to trace the ringing to its source.

How much of my time is spent in endeavors such as this each and every week of my life?

Furthermore, why have Liz and I invested in a remarkably dangerous wireless can opener that manages to stop halfway through the procedure for which it exists, leaving can and opener inextricably linked so that hammer and wrench and crowbar and profanity in no way separate them? I eventually give up and toss the wedded can and opener into the trash, all the while wishing I had the excess energy required to ship both back to the factory, fishy smell and all.

And why do I own an automobile whose manufacturer has cleverly installed an intricate and incredibly expensive-to-repair door-security system? All I need is a lock and a key, not some geek-invented$600 gadget that sucks money from my pocket and deposits it into a Detroit bank account should it fail to operate.

And so on.

Solutions are easy to each of these problems: the unlocate-able phone, the non-nourishing can-eating opener and the electronic metal escape-proof collar that is a car door lock. They are easy to fix, just unfashionable and unsightly.

1. I’ll attach a long, permanent rope to each home phone, so that I can mountain-climb horizontally till I locate its receiver.

2. I’ll pull out my Swiss Army Boy Scout pocketknife and stab open my next can of beans.

3. I’ll attach a padlock to the car door, bypassing the electric marvel that seeks to control my time and my life.

There must be some unattractive but wise solution to many of life’s daily pains, and you don’t have to be a redneck to achieve closure.

All you really need is a hairpin, some duct tape, bungee cords, scissors, pliers, screwdriver and a few other Luddite tools to take control once again of a life gone techno

(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

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Bradbury’s Children Get to Live Forever

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I suppose the friendships you establish in childhood and young-adulthood are the most loyal and enduring of all friendships. But sometimes you don’t become aware of this fact till fifty years or so have whizzed past. Even then, friendships, by their very nature, are things you tend to take for granted—which means that when you are reminded that these friendships continue unabated, you appreciate them even more.

Take last Wednesday morning, for instance.

First email I see at the office comes from Pat Bleicher, in Arlington, Virginia. She’s known me since Second Grade and has accepted me, warts and all, in the six decades since then. She is the first to tell me that the best of all possible writers, Ray Bradbury, has died at age 91. She knows that Ray was my mentor and hero and role model and muse, and she sends me a long distance comforting pat.

Next, a phone call from Myra Crawford, who has known me since 1969 and, like a true friend, simply puts up with me to this day…and on this day she tells me she’s sorry that my friend has died. That’s all she has to do to make the friendship last the rest of my life.

Then Big Sister Barbara Partrich sends an email to comfort me. She’s only known me since the day I was born.

Then, I hear from June Cunniff, who met me in the 1970′s; Joan Dawson, who’s known me for decades, and so on.

Donn Albright, Ray’s bibliographer and archivist, drops me a note to say he’s leaving for L.A. immediately—that’s where Ray lived.

By the end of the day, lots of other folks have sent me smiles, since it would be against all things Ray Bradbury stood for to make this a tragic day. I hear from Chervis Isom and Irene Latham and Allen Johnson Jr. and Liz Reed…and then I lose count.

During the week, other customers who love Ray’s works come in to purchase his books and say something about his influence on their lives. The children of Ray Bradbury always come together at moments like this.

Once, when I was listening to Ray field audience questions during a conference in Atlanta, a young fan stood and said, “I know you once wrote that you would live forever. Do you still believe that?”

Ray answered, “Now I know that I will live forever—I have grandchildren!”

And now I know that I will live forever, too—I have friends who remember me at just the right moments in my life.

And, like love, I know that friendships last beyond death, always find a way to thrive, somewhere in time

(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Those who love are always around

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I can’t seem to rid myself of all the long-ago formerly-living people who have filled my life, fleshed out my life, enriched my life.

You’d think that, once people you know die, you’d be able to put aside your memory of them and get on with meeting new people, having new experiences.

Just doesn’t work that way.

There are many dead folk who continue to influence my life:

Helen Hisey, my 8th grade speech teacher, taught me not to be afraid of speaking my passion in front of audiences. She taught me that it’s OK to slow down and respect the crowd, have faith in their ability to absorb worthwhile information when it is delivered to them with  zeal and humor and love. Helen still guides me, all the way from my starring role in the play Tom Sawyer  (at age 13) to my role as Gabe in the new John Marc Green film Lipidleggin’  (at age 70).  

Sadie Logan, my 2nd grade teacher, brought me up from a very deep and fearful place to a position of importance. She never, ever stopped believing in me and letting me know that I was the most special kid on earth. Fifty years later, I learned that she made virtually every student she’s ever taught feel the same way. We are all the offspring of Sadie Logan.

Jon Charles Palmer and Elmo Riley and Pat Flood were my childhood playmates who just plain accepted me as their friend and never had any reason to harm or dismiss me, no matter how stupid I acted, no matter how far away and out of touch I became. I still hang out with them in memory ever fresh.

Frances Lee McGee Reed, my mother, always laughed at my corny humor, always knew I was special, never let me get away with a lie or an exaggeration or a misdeed, forever believed that I was Number One in her book—even though my brothers and sisters felt the same way. She taught me that the greatest entertainment there is, is people-watching, and I spend most of each public day doing just that, with her invisible presence setting me straight.

James Thomas Reed Jr., my father, taught by quiet example. He was clumsy aloud, but his image as a learned and wise man was powerful without words. He was my earliest example of what a real family man does—earn the living, bring home the pay, sit silently in an easy  chair after supper, reading books great and books seedy and books wise, from Mickey Spillane and Zane Grey and Edgar Rice Burroughs to Eric Hoffer and Harry Truman and Ogden Nash. A most educated man, though never a graduate, he set the example of steadfast tranquility.

Other dead people who look after me:

Pawpaw Burns was my elderly neighbor who showed me that if you really pay close attention to children, you can get through to them by simply noticing, simply respecting them for where they are at the moment. They can always tell.

Adron Herrin and Jack McGee and Brandon McGee and Pat McGee and Annabelle Herrin and Evey Hartley and Effie McGee and Georgia McGee and Gladys McGee and Matty Wooten and John McGee and Dinah Hassell and Elizabeth McGee and many other kinfolk accepted me, warts and all, and treated me with respect and good humor, making me react in horror when anybody tells me they are separated from their kin, cut off from the nurturing care that can come from kindly people who share your blood, if you will only let them.

There are crowds of dead people in my head and in my life and that’s OK.

Even better news: there are scores of living people who have helped me, too, many without even knowing it.

I see living people.

And, because of the wisdoms and comforts and joys left me by the deceased, I am better prepared than most to carefully weed out the unwise and hang only with the people who trust and accept me and make no judgements.

Thanks to those long-ago-passed, I have become a good student of life, and the lives they lived help me manage the bad days well, and enjoy the good days even more

(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

 

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Me and My Muses

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These students at Trinity School in Montgomery, Alabama attended my seminar, HOW TO BECOME YOUR OWN BOOK. They are book-ended by yours truly on the left, and teacher Robert McGowin on the right. A delightful, bright class!