Whenever it gets this hot, I cool off by thinking about my favorite Santas who hang around the shop.
This Santa was illustrated by Gwen Gorby.
Category Archives: museum of fond memories
The Seventy-Cent Four-Minute Shopping Spree
LISTEN: http://jimreedbooks.com/mp3/seventycentfourminute.mp3 or READ ON…
Historic Downtown Birmingham is my neighborhood, and my little bookstore and museum constitute the center of my personal universe. Most days, I live in the peaceful world by staying out of the way of gypsies, tramps, thieves, wolves and cranky people…but the one thing I can’t seem to avoid is the plethora of City Employee Attitude Provokers. These folks are scattered here and there, and they appear to pounce only when I least expect it…only when I am otherwise having a nice day.
We can take care of the elephants, but the gnats are annoying to the max.
FROM MY RED CLAY DIARY, JUST LAST WEEK:
It’s first thing in the bustling morning of the big city, and I do what I do at least three times a week—pull up to a parking space in front of the town’s only variety store, FAMILY DOLLAR, this time to pick up some trash bags and paper towels for the shop.
I check the winking metal meter and scrounge around for a nickel, which I know will provide six minutes of parking time, just enough for me to do my thing. There’s no nickel, but the dime I find will suffice—what the heck, I can spend twelve minutes looking at the gewgaws and jawing with the employees.
I stick the dime into the winking meter—and it just keeps on winking. Oops! It’s another broken machine in the traditionally broken-meter ethos of Downtown. Maybe it was dozing instead of blinking…so I stick another dime in the slot. Blinking continues. At this point, I have to decide whether to risk receiving an overtime ticket, or just dash in, hoping to beat the system. Then, I notice a Meter Maid (don’t know what her real title is) who seems new to the beat. She’s checking cars and issuing tickets and she’ll soon be coming my way. I decide to let her know about the meter, so I won’t have to worry about the fine.
“Hi, I notice that this meter isn’t taking my money.”
She snaps, “What did you put in?”
“Two dimes.”
“Well, you have to put in a quarter,” she replies impatiently, which I know not to be the case—just guess she’s new to the beat and trying to seem efficient. I do not mention this fact.
“Hmm…wonder when they started requiring dimes only?” I say, searching my pocket for some quarters.
She doesn’t reply and huffs away to look at another meter.
I insert a quarter into Winky, and, sure enough, it continues to wink. No results.
“Uh, it isn’t taking quarters, either,” I say, since she’s only a few feet away.
She grimaces and snaps, “Well, how do I know you put anything in the meter? I didn’t see you put it in.”
I’m stunned but still on task—I just want to make my FAMILY DOLLAR purchases and get to the shop before opening time. The only thing I can think to do is seize the moment. Maybe I’ll even check out those stylish satchel bags everyone’s been raving about—they’d make a perfect addition to my everyday look.
“Well, please witness this for me, I’m about to put another quarter in, but can you watch me this time?”
She freezes, can’t seem to think of any snappy comeback, and stands about two feet away looking at the meter while I place the quarter where it’s supposed to go. It doesn’t work. She WHAPS the side of the meter, hoping that will solve the problem, but the winking continues.
The Meter Maid starts to walk away, turns back for a second, waves her hand dismissively, and says, “You’re OK.” I take that to mean she won’t issue a penalty.
I make my purchase (it only takes four minutes) and am relieved that there is no ticket when I return.
I hop in my time machine and head for work, where I will spend the rest of the day laughing at the incident, marvelling at the unnecessary energy required to have just one tiny justice done on the streets, and hoping to avoid any additional encounters with City Attitude employees, at least for the rest of the day
(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed
PONIES WALK THE STREETS OF BIRMINGHAM
PONIES WALK THE STREETS OF BIRMINGHAM
Listen to Jim’s podcast:
http://jimreedbooks.com/mp3/ponieswalkthestreets.mp3
or read his story below…
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My Red Clay Diary continues to write itself each day. Here are a few things that flashed across my path this week:
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Third Avenue North in front of the shop (Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories) has been barren but fun today (Friday). The Jackie Robinson film “42″ is being shot—in part—in Birmingham.
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I’ve met film crew members who became customers (thank goodness! since regular customers were not allowed on the set)…strutted down a street bereft of traffic (going the wrong way on a one-way street—legally—is akin to walking naked down Madison Avenue)…eaten a hotdog prepared by Rhonda at Goodyear Shoe Hospital (Goodyear has been Downtown since 1919 and is still going strong)…discussed Birmingham and its beauty and style with the movie’s artistic director (these folks work really hard—they’ll be filming all night)…been dismayed by the rude attitude of a city employee (no matter how much the City attempts to bring wonderful things like moviemaking and sports to our area, the message never seems to trickle down to most workers, since they are just plain mannerless and humorless)…been delighted at how out-of-towners love our city (“It’s green, architecturally lovely, friendly, and the site of great eateries.”)…been happy to acquire some great books to add to our shelves (a carload came in today and another is due tomorrow).
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And Saturday night, the entire experience was enhanced one degree by John Marc Green, the director of a new short film (Lippidleggin’), who hosted a screening at Five Points South. It was strange and exhilirating to see myself and fellow actors Whit Russell and David Seale on the big screen. They did a great job! Guess you’ll have to wait till film festival time to see the flick yourself. Stay tuned!
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So…what’s a Red Clay Diarist to do next? The dilemma is always there—each time you see something fun and artistic and inspiring on the streets of the City, there’s often something that doesn’t quite fit with the rosy picture.
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The good news is, the moment you get over your annoyance at those folks who just don’t care about Birmingham, there’s always something great and positive to note and ponder on.
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Thanks goodness for the ponies we find among the haystacks of detritus. They keep us coming back for more
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(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed
http://www.jimreedbooks.com
The Six-Smile Double-Grimace Tapdance Trek to Fond Memoryland
Listen: http://jimreedbooks.com/mp3/sixsmiledoublegrimace.mp3 or read on…
Wending my way from abode to workplace each morning is an experience roughly like driving a bumper car down the freeway or tapdancing around hidden land mines. I’m so relieved and happy to arrive unmolested that I have trouble remembering what it was that made the trek such an adventure.
Let me go back ten minutes in time and examine what happened:
I’m grateful for the smiles. The clerk at the pharmacy is so pleasant and anxious to please that I just can’t help smiling right back. She always asks if anyone ever told me I look like George Carlin. I always reply that she’s the only one, but that I’ll take it as a compliment.
A close-cropped-hair young man stands at the corner outside the pharmacy and begins his panhandler routine. I just say no and wonder how he affords the cigarettes and cell phone if he needs to solicit.
There’s a sign at the corner, FUNKY FISH FRY, which is three days out of date. If I’m to enjoy the fish, I’ll need to re-tool the time machine.
At the post office, the clerk is all smiley and friendly today, primarily because I drew the one who knows how to converse. We have a good, informative time. Yet another smile.
I drop my laundry off and have a pleasant interchange with the employee, who by now knows way too much about me, since she’s been cleaning my clothes for decades. That’s yet another smile.
Driving on toward the shop, I have a revelation—one that I can share at a speech I’m giving this evening. My generation says DUH (pronounced DUUUUUHHH, as in stupid). This generation says DUH (pronounced sharply, DUH!, as in disdainful). There must be some metaphor there. Another smile, this time from me.
Two large ladies, lawfirm employees, never see me, though I walk past within inches of them outside the shop each day. All they can concentrate on are the cigarettes they’re frantically puffing on, and the gossip they are loudly sharing. All I can concentrate on is not inhaling, since secondary smoke is inescapable on my block.
I finally arrive at the front door and get a special, gigantic smile from the Piggly Wiggly mascot head in the show window. Within seconds, I’ll be safe from dread, boredom, addiction, neediness and superficial patter, all of which I’ve experienced between home and store.
For a few seconds, I’ll be peaceful and secure.
Then, I’ll roll the stone from before the entrance and open myself again to the World, the friendly shoppers, the saber-tooth tigers and the constant surprises that I later can write about on my little computer screen, just for you
(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed
Notes in Bottles Float to the Center of the Universe
Listen: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/notesinbottles.mp3 or read on…
Some days at the shop, my visitors remind me of notes sealed in bottles.
Each customer brings a message to me. Often, the customer is not even aware.
But I see the message and treasure it.
Some examples of messages plucked from bottles that floated to the center of the Universe, which is what Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories is, most definitely:
1. One reader tells me how he discovered his first John D. MacDonald book by accident, while staying at a rat trap motel back in the 1980′s. Since MacDonald was so good at describing the underbelly of Florida night life through the eyes of its movers and victims, it was the right time. I sell the customer a bio of MacDonald, wishing I had read it first. Travis McGee was one dude.
2. A good ol’ boy browser noses about with his wife, and manages to do something any ventriloquist would envy. He talks without touching his lips together. You’d have to be there, if you don’t already know what I’m experiencing. “All right” becomes “awe ITE” and “yeet yet?” is actually “Have you eaten yet?” and so on. He was a cool cat back in high school. His ducktail has thinned.
3. Another junkin’ couple cruises the shop, and the male partner expounds on his store of imcomplete knowledge: “See that Ray Bradbury book? You know, he created Star Trek. He’s dead now.” 92-year-old Bradbury is not in great health but he’s still happy to be alive, according to all reports. Don’t know whether the late Gene Roddenberry is happy.
4. One more curiosity-seeker walks around with his pal and is heard to say, “With all them computers, people ain’t even gonna need books no more.” Employee Marie Peerson overhears this and reports back. She, too, is entertained by messages in bottles, even if the bottles sometimes leak and make soggy the messages.
5. A large baseball-capped man is awed by the life-size stand-up of Elvira, Mistress of the Cleavage, or whatever her stage name is. “She got me through my formative years,” he chuckles.
6. One silent customer forces me to read his mind, as he looks at an old publicity photo of Lauren Bacall. “Does she feel as pretty as she looks?” and, studying a Rolling Stone Magazine with Tina Turner thereon, “Does she do it like she dances?” I distract myself from further mind-reading. As Bugs Bunny said, “Enough is enough, and too much is plenty!”
7. One enthused customer is everywhere at once, overwhelmed at the variety of literary treasures she’s unexpectedly finding in the shop. Her shoes defy gravity, and she finally purchases more than she intended. I wish for a moment that I possessed a remote control that would allow me to replay her energy for the inspiration of other customers.
8. A happy young man picks a leatherbound Robert Louis Stevenson collectible book for his library and is already looking forward to the next visit. Yet another collector spends the entire day carefully deciding upon which century his next selection will time-travel from. He loves it all.
9. A Lincoln-conspiracy scholar has me order two more obscure assassination study volumes for his collection. He and his wife are always smiling and satisfied when they leave. Wish I could bottle them, but they are already bottles, and I their opener.
So it goes.
Anybody anywhere anytime who claims the old-book business isn’t fascinating and educational and riveting just hasn’t dared to take the time to come in, spend an hour or two, and allow the tomes of yore to whisk them away to better lands and imaginations
(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed
Nobody Ever Gets Out of the High Chair
Listen: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/nobodyevergetsout.mp3 or read on…
Nobody Ever Gets Out of the High Chair
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To become a bartender or a waiter, you don’t have to have a PhD in psychology or social work, but that doesn’t matter, because your customers think you have a PhD in psychology or social work.
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In other words, in a bar or a restaurant, people often revert to infantilism and look to the barkeeper or waitress as confessor and adviser. We DEPEND on these people to make us forget the day’s troubles…we depend upon them to act as substitutes for those long ago folks in our lives who fed us and made us feel secure.
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Bring back the eateries of my youth!
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In memory yet green, I can still walk into all kinds of restaurants that used to exist in Tuscaloosa, and I can still get well fed with Food for Thought, even though the restaurant may be long gone and dearly departed.
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In the 1960’s, as a skinny bespectacled radio and TV announcer, I used to take myself and wife to the restaurant beside the Moon Winx Motel and eat an enormous filet mignon with baked potato and goodness knows what else, for under $2.00 on Friday night. That neon partial-moon still winks at me in my imagination, and I’ve always regretted that I never spent a night there, with that glow leaking around the curtains.
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In the 1940’s, I used to be hauled by Mother and Sister to H&W Drugs when it was right across the street from the Bama Theatre. There, we would eat the known universe’s best danged chicken salad sandwiches on toasted light bread cut in two, glugged down with soda fountain Coca-Cola. I can still taste that wonderful oniony flavor and would give just about anything to have one of those sandwiches right this minute.
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We used to drive past the Teapot Diner when I was little, but I never got to eat there. It would have been an exciting thing to do–eat inside a teapot! Then, to cap it off, what a treat it would have been to spend the night in the Wigwam Motor Court toward Bessemer! Wonder what kind of food THEY served?
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Some of the best dining I ever had was while standing on the concrete floor of my grandfather’s store in Peterson, R.L. MCGEE GEN MERCHANDISE, and eating some ice cream washed down by a Grapico, flavored with love and affection from my grandmother Effie and Uncle Brandon and the postmistress, Aunt Gladys.
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The best loaded cheeseburgers I ever had were from the Soup Store cafeteria in the Student Union Building at the University of Alabama, where I worked as an announcer for the public radio station. Back in the early sixties, I’d put on a long symphonic work for the listeners, then dash down to the Soup Store, grab a burger and a Coke and some chips, and rush back upstairs, hoping against hope that the LP vinyl recording hadn’t gotten stuck in the meantime.
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That juicy cheeseburger would be just right, right about now.
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The best food I could have would be in my parents’ home on Eastwood Avenue long about Sunday evening, when the refrigerator still held cold left-over fried chicken and potato salad and Pepsi Cola. What would I give to experience that again!
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And so on.
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What are YOUR memories of great food in great places? Let me hear from you.
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Just remember: it’s not the food, you know. It’s the circumstances.
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When I was feeling safe in a safe little town with a safe little family in a safe little neighborhood, anything I ate was memorable. When I was playing Shostakovich on the big turntable and drinking soft drinks and scarfing a cheeseburger on campus, life couldn’t possibly have gotten any better for that moment. When I was Downtown ready to go see a picture show, eating chicken salad with my mother and sister, I was in safe haven.
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When I could walk across main street, all the way from my job at WJRD, to S.H. Kress on the other side, and eat a plate lunch for less than a dollar in the 1960’s, I knew life was only going to get better.
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Back then we could sit at Pasquale’s on University Boulevard and gossip and bloat for hours, we could go to York’s Grocery Store on 15th Street and load up on snacks, we could go across the street from city hall and sit and sip with mayor Hinton and other reporters after City Council meetings…and, even before that, way back in the 1950’s, I could take part of my lunch money at Tuscaloosa High School, purchase one of those heavy, yeasty rolls at the cafeteria, grab a half pint of Perry Creamery’s Pasteurized Homoginized milk, and hang out with the other nerds and geeks I loved: Patricia Gresham, Pat Flood, Jon Charles Palmer, Barbara Casson, Dot Jones, Jerry Hudson, Doug Bleicher, Arthur Voss and so on. Then, I could take the unspent part of my lunch money across the street after school to Parkview Drugs and spin that rack of paperback books and get something new and exciting to read.
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Every meal is a lasting memory, when you’re young. From my earliest recollection of rubber-nipple-bottled milk and my first birthday cake (all over face and body), to my last meal just a few second agos (crunchy fake tacos and Diet Coke), every meal carries a memory to pull out of the file on a future lonely day, every meal triggers a memory of a wonderful eating experience I had a decade ago or a half century ago.
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If I were back in that wooden high chair right now, on my first birthday, knowing what I know now, I would still stick my face and fingers into that white icing and laugh with delight at the prospect of recalling it some 70 years later
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(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed