Hear Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast on youtube: https://youtu.be/liQToKkZgiQ

or read the original story below…

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Life, actually…

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GOING BUMPITY-BUMP THROUGH WASHBOARD DAYS

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“Shiver me timbers!”

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That’s the first shout that pops forth in my young mind when the family car encounters a sudden red-clay puddle on the Watermelon Road. It’s the late-1940s.  I am a wee lad holding my breath till fanny and backbone plop back to seat cushion.

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Such a bump! And such an adventure!

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I’ve been reading stories by Robert Louis Stevenson and Daniel Defoe. My imagination excites itself with pirate terms such as Shiver Me Timbers!

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To add to the joys of this bumpity-bump journey, next up is a wonderfully long stretch of washboard roadway.

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I hesitate to ask whether you know what a washboard is. Just enjoy the tale.

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Teeth chatter as the car vibrates awhile. Asphalt and concrete have not yet discovered the Watermelon Road. But they are soon to pounce, as commerce and a post-WWII boom loom over this Down South village.

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My timbers are indeed shivered.

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When we reach our destination, the Bethel Presbyterian Church, we bounce over a ditch and park on wild grass near other rattletraps vehicles.

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Relatives are everywhere near the church-ground picnic tables. They bring freshly-cooked foodstuffs to share in dishes covered against salivating flies.

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Kids and oldsters mingle and self-identify and laugh up a storm. When most have arrived, blessings are offered, dishes uncovered, elderly and young politely line up and begin loading plates with biscuits, okra, black-eyed peas, corn on the cob, butterbeans, dumplings, turnip greens, pickles sweet and sour, crunchy and soggy, homemade cakes and pies and cookies, hot grits and barbeque, crispy fried chicken, spicy cornbread muffins…

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And, later, there will be hand-cranked ice cream, roasted pecans, peppermint sticks, a shot glass filled with toothpicks, paper and linen napkins galore, an extra roll of toilet paper for when the church restroom runs out, handmade quilts on the ground beneath the trees, napping uncles, a loose bottle of Alka-Seltzer for those suffering from lack of impulse control, even a BC Powder tucked away by stressed-out moms.

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And those bubbly soft drinks are everywhere, from Buffalo Rock to Grapico. Everybody be merrily belching.

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After some softball tossings and lawn games, some of us will follow our elders to visit the nearby tombstones leaning over long-gone but well-recalled relatives who no longer have to worry about washboard roads and indigestion and sunburned noses.

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We tads have fleeting thoughts about reserving our own spaces for a century-from-now rest stop beneath the joyful celebrations of fun-filled relatives who still have a few sparks to ignite before giving in.

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Later, packed into the idling family car, we sweat a bit while hovering kinfolk share their last-minute tales.

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We wake from our snoozes when we hit more washboard dreams, pothole excursions, red clay puddles.

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Our shivered timbers will rest well tonight

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast. Click here: https://youtu.be/2nnEeubKFT4

Read his words below:

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Life, actually…

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A WOMAN OF A CERTAIN AGE GOES TRAWLING

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Carefully and steadily she proceeds south from her home on Eastwood Avenue, heading toward the corner half a block away. Her plan is to cross Fifteenth Street and visit the Mall where a familiar daily adventure prepares to pounce and bring pleasure to another extraordinary day.

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She is of a certain age, counted by decades. She is petite and smartly dressed. She carries a respectable handbag and a small umbrella. She is self-contained and smiling. Always smiling.

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Smiling at neighbors, clucking at friendly dogs, picking up an errant candy wrapper and pocketing it for later disposal.

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She smiles at flower beds, inhales their fragrance, continues her journey.

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After safely crossing the lightly trafficked asphalt she arrives at her first destination, a variety store where miscellaneous delights await.

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She adjusts her specs, leans over a waist-high counter and spies an open box filled with multihued beads. She begins her visceral examination, touching first this glass sphere, then this jagged bit of glisten.

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The store clerks are accustomed to this polite visitor and remain pleasantly distant and attentive while she cruises the display.

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She touches a bead with her finger. She uses two fingers to lift it up to the fluorescent light. She holds it at arm’s length, draws it close to her face, each moment paying close attention to its inner glow, its silent world-within-a-world storytelling.

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After another moment of reflection the petite woman of a certain age visits each store display, appreciating what every object has to offer, experiencing the textures and fragrances, noting heft and reflectivity, seemingly never missing a thing.

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She will sweetly continue her explorations till lunch-counter time, then return home to arrange her purchased items for the brief delight of family and other visitors. She will curate these worldly goods as if they are ancient treasures in a museum.

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She reflects on how these objects of desire came into being, how each represents the end result of someone’s long-ago dream. She wonders whatever happened to these anonymous dreamers.

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She wonders whether they still dream

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s three-minute podcast:https://youtu.be/z5C7oWO77Fs

or read his original transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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CONNIPTIONS AND CONNECTIONS STEER THE UNIVERSE

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As I unbed myself this morning, my surroundings begin to entertain me.

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I stumble to a porcelain-centered room and perform my obligations. I am thankful for being a captive of the day’s routines and rituals.

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Routines come in handy because they help me avoid having to think through everything I do. Glad I don’t have to read toothpaste tube instructions on how to brush. Imagine the misuse of time. If I had to spend six minutes twice a day just figuring out dental hygiene practices, think how many hours of my life would best be used in more productive activities. And multiply that times multiple other taken-for-granted tasks.

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Anyhow I shortcut my way out of one room and head for the next activity.

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Most of each twenty-four-hour cycle is spent distributing my moods and concerns to other people. It’s like fishing in a prescription bottle to find one pill without spreading microbes around by touching adjacent pills.

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Be patient with me. I do go on.

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As time progresses, I interact and entertain, passing along greetings and small talk just to see who else is conscious and rebooted today. I realized some time ago that, rather than whining about how I don’t get no respect, I have to create that respect by instigating pleasantries.

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Sharing small talk awakens people, initiates smiles and chuckles and shared wisdoms.

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For tiny moments these interchanges smooth the daytime wrinkles from our unpressed paths.

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We try to avoid contact but we constantly bump into and overlap each other in unspoken awareness that we share tribes and interchanges and exchanges and conflicts. We somehow complain and cooperate simultaneously.

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It’s a rattletrap society. But we do meander through when not distracted by fear and trembling. We do get things done in a strangely messy manner, each second the result of loud or silent compromises.

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We pretend we are in charge but we all share the same buried knowledge that nature and politics expend no time at all in trying to make us happy.

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In other words, the world is all around us, laden with pitfalls and treasures. It is our responsibility to grasp and enjoy the treasures while dancing around the pitfalls.

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We do this conniption dance automatically most of the time. It becomes second nature to avoid hazard and seize joy. If we don’t do this we will simply become spasmed nervous inhabitants of an impartial universe.

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I would not wish that on anybody, especially me

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast this week: https://youtu.be/GyjA4mGKtFE

or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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GETTING READY TO GET READY

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Some people primp, some people preen, some posture, some pose. But Down South where I reside, preparations for Being Seen take precedence over Being Seen.

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We spend bookoos of time (beaucoups of time, to you English teachers), preparing to be seen in public.

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I mean, bookoos of time!

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Here is a partial list of the things we expend hours doing.

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Hitching trouser, curling hair, smoothing skirt, sucking in gut, sniffling to clear nasal passages, tooth-gap sucking, shoe sole inspecting, rolling up sleeves, toothpicking, grabbing a smoke, scratching that itchy place, pulling up socks, straightening hemline, fanny-smoothing, lip glossing, nose blowing, throat-clearing, tsking, cheek-puffing, sighing, grunting…

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See what I mean? All this twitchy activity has to happen before some of us can be seen in public. And that’s not counting everybody who is uncool enough to actually do these things while in public.

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There’s more:

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Whistling, humming, hair-adjusting, zipper-checking, foot tapping, squinting and making faces, lip biting, grimacing, jaw-clinching, eye-rubbing, tip-toeing, elbow-hugging, knuckle cracking, belt tightening, casing the joint…

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Then, just to make an entrance, there is much fist-bumping and handshaking and compliment-fishing to do.

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By the time you are ready to make the leap into Attention Land, you can be a bundle of sensitized nerve endings. So, the only way to fake a calm and confident countenance is to take a deep breath, recall the magical personality you wish others would notice, and begin the grand entrance.

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You sure look nice today

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast:https://youtu.be/5hVQYJCcDMQ

or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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ADRIFT IN THE MIDDLE OF SOMEWHERE

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I live in a Down South village filled with invisible delights.

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All around me, villagers young and ancient view the village through hand-held gadgets. They seldom glance up to see what the actual living three-dimensional village looks like.

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Images are stored for later evidence proving that they were actually present at the moment of snapshot.

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This is old hat nowadays. I have grown uncomfortably accustomed to strolling among beings who seldom make eye contact. I am invisible to them, they are husks partially present but hardly accounted for.

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Of course there are many exceptions to this bleak description I am sculpting. There are direct-contact people scattered everywhere. I enjoy our exchanges. We exist in a secret society parallel to the selfie tribes. We all get along mainly because we are in-person  communicators.

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So, what do selfies overlook? Surely the village is more than rectangular one-dimensional moments. And what do I miss when I am enjoying my day of experiencing real live people in real live life?

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Ah, the fragrances. That’s what we denizens of the open air miss when we record our surroundings. How do you selfie a fragrance, how do I describe to future villagers what an especially pleasant odor is like?

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Maybe that’s what we authors and diarists and poets are good at. Maybe there is a place for us. Maybe AI hasn’t yet taken over fragrances. If it does, don’t tell me.

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The same goes for touch (the warmth of a hug or a fist-bump or a high-whatever), for warmth and cold (describe freezing at a bus stop for 45 minutes). Can you snap a picture that makes you feel what inhaling and exhaling are like?

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Just a couple of randomly emerging thoughts that furrow my brow and excite my imagination. Send me a snapshot of your latest Aha! moment. It does require real-life thinking and sorting to work that out, doesn’t it?

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If I had my druthers I’d find a way to show you how much fun mind-trolling can be.

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At least I’m trying

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast on youtube: https://youtu.be/QFjjDylcHO0

or read his diary below:

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Life, actually…

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DIARY OF A PLASTIC POTTED PLANT

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There it is, taking up eight percent of my view.

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I am sitting in a people-watching pew. Like other patients I fidget and find distractions to redact all the unknowable things I am about to experience, here in co-pay purgatory.

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This is just another roadside health haven and I am just one more person being quietly digested into the system.

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I notice two things.

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One, my idea of waiting is to gaze intensely at everything and everyone in the room, memorizing all for later contemplation, listening to moans and chuckles and sniffing the filtered air and feeling the texture of armrest and upholstery.

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Two, everyone else in the room is studiously staring palmward at their beloved ovoid devices, strumming past one image in search of the next image seeking yet another image…

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I notice the others not noticing me. This gives me full freedom to stare and examine at will. They will not know I was ever here.

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I vaguely recall days of yore when conversational exchange between contiguous people was everybody’s pastime. Dipping cautiously into the lives and stories of strangers gave me viewpoints I would never have imagined.

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It was fun and comforting.

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But I digress.

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My focus right now, in this distracted crowd, is on the plastic potted plant sutured into my view from the pew.

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The plastic potted plant is self-contained, its dependable fakery long-lasting. No watering required, no trimming, no fragrance emitted, no critters to inhabit or gnaw on it.

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All it receives is perhaps a bit of dusting every year or two. A live plant would shift or droop or bend toward the light. The plastic plant is frozen in time, somebody’s idea of elegant room design.

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It does seem to meld with the rest of the waiting room. Gray floor tiles and assembly-line art on the walls, insulation framed into the ceiling, cold white lights causing patients to look as ill as they might be.

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The plastic potted plant does not scream or laugh. Or does it? Is there a place such plants go at night to express their isolation?

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The plant is my only friend for a few minutes. It will be here when my next appointment rolls around, a new layer of dust on each stiff leaf begging for attention.

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I look forward to reuniting with this stolid creature. Seeing it again will at least remind me that I am still here, clutching my co-pay card and casting about for comfort and joy

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(c) 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Catch Jim’s latest 3-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/1RNWbB9mFow

or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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INSPECTING FISSURES IN THE FIRMAMENT

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Today, a bunch of decades ago, I am bouncing along in a patched seat midway down the aisle of a clattering city bus.

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I am once again in my Way Back When machine.

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The city bus is in the capable hands of a driver I see every day. I am facing front so that I can ply my favorite trade, the kid-business of Watching and Recalling. I scrutinize all the small things, the things that reside between the big things we are accustomed to seeing.

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I see the back and profile of the driver as he shifts large gears and spins a groaning steering wheel. One hand shifts, the other hand empties coins into a canvas bag, making room for the next round of nickels and dimes and quarters.

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As passengers board and exit through two separate doors I look at their feet and their cuffs. Worn leather, scuffed soles, loose strings, sagging socks and drooping nylons, all these coverings have their own histories, timelines I daydream about, scenarios I imagine.

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I not only notice, I wonder. Black passengers climb through the cranked front doors, deposit their fares, then walk the gauntlet past White passengers, then settle down in back seats reserved solely for them. They later exit through the rear doors, avoiding another walk-through.

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I notice that this division of color is handled in a mannerly fashion. Whites and Blacks exchange g’mornings and reciprocate polite nods. Smiles are transacted. Politeness reigns.

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I watch as riders pull bell cords, alerting the driver to stop at the next corner. Bones creak, paper bags rustle, body fragrances leave their traces as passengers descend to street level. Passengers-to-be stand calmly at the bus stop till the exiting exiters exit, then clamber up metal steps while pulling fare coins from pocket and purse.

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The rumbling bus strains to make it up a neighborhood hill, then sighs loudly as we go into freefall down the other side.

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I grin because the little old driver is lively and quick. He must be connected to Christmas in some mysterious way, else why would this thought occur?

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The bus reminds me of a diner. In a family diner, people generally behave. Though separated by tribe and clan and misplaced tradition, they find ways to accommodate to rules and mores and regulations and cautions, most of which seem to exist without kind purpose.

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I have to grow up before I can process all of this, before I can resolve the fact that reality and poetic imagination can indeed co-exist. But mainly through the eyes of us, a handful of silent Watchers and Wonderers.

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Of course at the time I don’t have all these puzzles sorted out. Right now I am just a kid enjoying an enjoyable bus ride on a Down South day so very long ago

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(c) 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/URNWMVjmn78

or read his transcript below…

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Life, actually…

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SALUTES AND SALUTATIONS TO A NEW OLD WORLD

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It is suddenly a new year. This is something that keeps happening. New years emerge, blanket the earth for a time, are later replaced with yet other new years.

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Deja damn vu all over again.

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Pushing aside all wisecracks and cutesy remarks, I occasionally drift back into a trove of childhood memories.

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When I was less than a handful of years on Earth my sister Barbara and I had the habit of gazing upwards and saluting each time an aircraft passed over our Down South neighborhood.

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Saluting flyovers was our way of paying tribute to World War II and the people we knew who lived through it and the people we knew about who did not live through it.

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Barbara and I were mere inklings while the war raged on, but we witnessed all familial things that were effected by this global battle.

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Our parents and relatives did what they could to do the right things. And they did something else remarkable. They allowed us to be children as if there were no atrocities outside our village. Like millions of other adults they wanted us to be as normal and healthy as possible if and when the war ended.

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So our generation of wartime and post-wartime kids grew up with visual memories of the results of war, with permanent images of collateral damage, with indelible ideas of how wars are waged and how wars are later glossed over while at the same time being carefully documented.

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If we wanted the relief of humor we responded to the laughter and goodwill that resulted from just getting on with life, just brushing aside the sadnesses if only for moments.

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If we wanted to show our respect for all the damage that people experienced, we delved into the anecdotes and documentation that journalists and historians recorded.

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We learned to laugh with our uncles who fought and gifted us with jokes and souvenirs, telling us only the ironies, holding back from us the terrors.

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When we grew up, we slowly learned the rest of the stories these veterans had to tell. By then we were informed enough to be able to absorb the downside of all the camaraderie and sacrifice and grimness that was wartime.

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So, back to Barbara and me. We stand in the front yard of our bungalow on Eastwood Avenue and salute the planes. We feel proud to let witnesses know that we are well-meaning kids who still remember. It is kind of like praying in public.

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Today, right now, I feel like saluting the new year as if my wishes for peace and kindness might actually be acknowledged.

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In reality, I know that the good and the flawed in us humans will alternate and rise and fall as time slips by. During the bad I salute ahead the goodness that might unexpectedly arise, if only in my dreams

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 (c) 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s podcast: https://youtu.be/657KXtLtHOs

or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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SPACKLE SPACKLE EVERYWHERE

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(Random Ideas About Reality and Fantasy and In-Betweenness)

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Your unconscious beauty reveals you as you really are, in this split second between ego surges.

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Others secretly bask in your glow. They sense the unvarnished and deep-seated being you really are. The untainted version. Sensible, caring.

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All that spackle you apply only covers up your worth. The caring being is hidden, becomes mannequin-like, impresses facade-lovers everywhere. Your surface attracts only other surfaces. Pomp and primp dominate a masquerade ball, but the real stuff is also worthy of celebration.

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Where are you, this loving and loved soul disguised with hairpiece and lashes and half a pound of cover-up and fragrance enhancer and body exaggeration?

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Oh, it’s ok that this is the way you evade the confusions of real life. After all, we all dodge and weave and look the other way when reality bites.

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But once in a while why not gather together a handful of people who just want to be immersed in the act of being alive and together, just the way they are?

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Too much to ask of your comrades? Too personal?

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Should this special gathering of artifice-droppers decide to open up and baste themselves in reality, a supply of elaborate masks and shrouds will be on hand each time it becomes too much.

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Everybody has a laughing place, a briar patch, a cone of invisibility nearby in case of emergency.

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Before you duck out of sight, allow the world to enjoy a peek at your beautiful vulnerability. You have the right to peek right back.

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The other side of the looking glass awaits

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 (c) 2025 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 3-minute Christmas podcast: https://youtu.be/GGXDS5xV75w

or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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A PATCHWORK CHRISTMAS

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Eighty Christmas Eves ago my four-years-older sister and my infant brother and my early-thirty-ish parents are all I know about Santa and his lively, loveable world.

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All the trappings and traditions of this season glaze themselves into fond memories, fond memories that will remain for handy retrieval all the remaining days of my life.

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As Christmas Eve after Christmas Eve slide past, each fragment of remembrance leaves its trace. Each cameo thought is its own teachable moment, whether it is pleasant or challenging.

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We are a patchwork species, we humans. We possess the ability to dream things that once were, dream things that cannot be, dream things that could possibly happen, dream things that are impossible but still imaginable.

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Each of us is a mixture of rude experience, happy recall, sassy thought, wishes and hopefulness, sadness and regret, incredible enthusiasm, gossamer tiptoeing, bravery and fear, anger and optimism.

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We patchwork people survive by wit and willpower. We slog through the toughest times, dance heartily to the tunes of transcendence and avoidance, caress our companions with full confidence that each good moment will last forever.

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In order to live lives worth living, we tend to use the tools we already have—whatever it takes to get through the next moment safely and securely. We are good at caring, we are skilled at sliding past obstacles, we are adept at holding fast our loved ones, we are clumsy at changing the thoughts and errant ways of other people.

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In other words, we are perfect one moment, imperfect the next, discombobulated at times, assured and sure of ourselves now and then.

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We imagine super heroes who accomplish what we cannot. We find scapegoats to make ourselves more competent by comparison. We feel guilt when we fall short of the lessons our parents and elders and teachers taught us. We are prideful when things turn out the way we planned.

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Santa is one of those dreams we created. In my times Santa stood for generosity, unconditional love, kindness personified, omniscience realized. Santa is still a righteous dude in my heart.

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As long as all the goodness in people remains a possible hope, Santa and his imaginary and real compatriots will stand by me and at the very least gently chide me when I stray

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(c) 2025 A.D. by Jim Reed