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Life, actually…

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ICU IN MY DREAMS

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(Just a few sunrises ago, I was still in the care of the medical helpers who dominate this village. Today, I am unfettered and healing, grateful for my fate. But I am so proud that I had a chance to look ceilingward at the smiling and intense faces looking down at me, taking careful care of me…strangers who for some reason suspended all dogma and politics and personal challenges for the hours it took to make sure I was properly treated.)

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Here is an entry from my Red Clay Diary, penciled and scrawled while still looking up at those faces.

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PROGRESS NOTES

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Bedbound,

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Bound into bed,

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Here lie I abed—in the ICU, to be exact.

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ICU, do UC me?

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ICU in my rose-tinted memories.

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And you are with me always.

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Thanks for adding to the velvet textures of my life.

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I remember the memorable things,

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I file away the missteps for later study,

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I cherish the sweetness you intend to offer,

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I cherish the idea that there is more cherishing to come

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(These words are for those who care about me, care for me, take care of me, care along with me, care for others. As a later priority, I hope they also  take care of themselves. And I hope that they, the caregivers and helpers of the world, will be properly taken care of in their times to come.)

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There is beauty all around. Sometimes it reveals itself at just the right moment

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 © Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Listen to Jim’s podcast:

on youtube: https://youtu.be/xgUR53jtaxc

or

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/themanwholivedhappilynever.mp3

Or read his story below:

Life, actually…

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THE MAN WHO LIVED HAPPILY NEVER AFTER

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I am inhaling the early-morning sunlit air of the city. All around me, objects of every size and mass reflect the early-morning sunlight back at the sky, back at me. There is glorious light everywhere, and I am the center of the glorious light.

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SWAT!

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Suddenly, the swat team of the negative brain arises to bring me up short and assure me that not all is beautiful sunlight and glorious reflection. The internal swat team swats at my sunny thoughts and reminds me that all that light brings sunburns and blisters and drought and thirst.

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SWAT!

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I shake my head and watch the graceful people of the sidewalk trot their aerobics, walk their pets, whisper into their phones, strut their stuff, show off their running shoes. They are lovely and mysterious, these graceful people of the sidewalk. I smile.

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SWAT!

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The swat team of the negative brain smirks and reminds me that some of these passersby could be looking for recreational pharmaceutical contacts on the street, might be silent victims of abuse, could be thieves seeking their next victims.

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SWAT!

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I brush away the swatty thoughts and prepare breakfast, enjoying the sensual pleasure of buttering toast, folding eggs and tomatoes and onions into a steamy, tasty amalgamation of nostalgic fragrance. The morning paper awaits my perusal.

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SWAT!

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Again, the warnings arise. Is all that butter going to kill me? Is leaded ink from the paper seeping into my fingers? Is the gas bill from cooking all these breakfasts going to be insurmountable at end of month? Will I remember that millions of people elsewhere are not able to afford breakfast?

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SWAT!

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To win this morning’s battle against the swat team, I begin a regimen of distraction and inspiration. To chase away the creepy negatives that abound, I begin my day, setting out to find books and treasures for the shop, sharing stories and harmless lies with other storytellers and liars, exulting in the sheer forward energy it takes to submerge myself into the joyful activities of writing my stories, selling the books, finding unfindable books for people,  jotting down notes for future books and stories and speeches. The swat team disappears into the mind’s dark corner to sulk.

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SWAT!

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The swat team says, “Let me tell you what a rotten person you…” but I swat the team down, laugh in its presence, ignore and suppress it.

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SWAT!

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This beautiful day has finally revealed itself unashamedly, and, finally, I, the man who often lives happily never after, get to savor the day, savor the life I lead, cherish the people I love.

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But I always keep my swatter handy, just in case

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

Twitter and Facebook

Life, actually…

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LITTLE BIRDS OF A FEATHER

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(More than a couple of decades ago, when grandson Reed was toddling about the world, I wrote this little note. I hope it reminds you of all those small times worth remembering.)

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Fifteen-month-old Reed walks shoeless on the Arabian rug, stepping gingerly over the power cord that leads to the computer on which I am writing this. The cord hurts his foot, should he step on it, so he avoids it.

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He mouths sounds that are words and thoughts to him but only guesses to us.

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He reaches out to touch the Graco Pack-Play Totyard that’s set up in the dining room writing room where I’m sitting, he gently pushes on the brand-name lettering and looks through the mesh sides to see what’s within this childhood prison compound.

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Then, merrily talking with himself, he wobbles slightly bow-legged into the living room where his young parents are conversing and casting attentive glances at him to make sure he’s ok. He circles from the living room through the kitchen, where his grandmother and her best friend are cooking and talking, and they greet him and chat with him as he walks past them into the foyer and then back into the dining room where I am.

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He again steps over the power cord, goes to the window where the air conditioning system is blowing the transparent curtains around, looks out, touches the curtains, then heads back to the Graco Pack-Play Totyard, this time running his fingernails over the mesh, which makes a most satisfying noise.

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Then, he is gone again.

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Earlier, my son-in-law and I rescue a bird that has fallen from a nest in the front yard, place it back into its little home, and hope that the nearby nervous parents will take it back and begin nourishing it again. The little bird has made a foray into unknown territory, had an adventure in which two giants carried it about and brought it back home–a story to tell to parents who probably will think it’s all exaggerated.

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Mosquitoes attack us and we spend a few minutes scratching and talking as if we’d never experienced mosquitoes quite this vicious before, but of course we have short memories, and anyhow it’s more pleasant to talk about that than politics, taxes, and how the world will end.

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Merry, chatty voices from the kitchen mingle with the voice of Reed, who is making up stories to tell to his usually tired but happy parents when the times comes to make his words understandable to adults.

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Now, Reed is sitting on the kitchen floor, banging a Tupperware bowl with a wooden cooking spoon. At times he forgets to pound the bowl and instead tries to fit the small end of the spoon into the mouth of the bowl, as if he’s carefully disarming a bomb, his concentration unbreakable for about forty seconds.

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Then, it’s back to pounding that thank-goodness-it’s-soft-plastic bowl with that thank-goodness-it’s-wooden spoon.

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All-in-all, it’s quite a productive afternoon in our little household. Reed goes about the business of being Reed, Little Bird is trying to figure out how to leave the nest safely, adults go about the business of being grownups who enjoy the presence of Little Birds and Little Reeds, and the world for at least a few hours cannot intrude its dispassionate self upon our family

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

Life, actually…

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NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO TOSS AND TURN

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In these saggy baggy times it seems that only sleepy heads find relief from the no-see-um irritants of daily life.

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Getting a good night’s sleep is my only defense against the plethora of things I cannot possibly alter or influence.

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Put it to rest, I tell myself.

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So, tonight I have yet another opportunity to gird myself against wakeful challenges…by hoping for a nice snooze.

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Say Hello to my little playbook:

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Ritual is helpful. Most nights at beddy-by time I shut things down downstairs before ascending to bedland, humming shards of an old novelty song, “I climbed up the door, opened the stairs, said my pajamas and put on my prayers…I put out the clock and wound the cat up tight, and all because you kissed me good-night.”

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The lyrics were funny when I was a kid. Thankfully, I know better than to abuse a cat or climb a door or toss out a perfectly good clock. But a good-night kiss from Liz is always welcome.

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Floss and toothpaste and jammies take the ritual all the way to bed and bedclothes and snuggling in. Then, being of unsound bookie-ness, I lie on my side and read from whatever is on the piled-high nightstand.

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Within arm’s reach are stacks of books and periodicals that do not fit the norm of mainstream reading. I need a page or three of something offbeat or provocative in order to jar my mind away from the cares of the day.

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Tonight, it’s a volume of essays by Robert Louis Stevenson. A surprisingly refreshing flow of words includes, “The greater part of poetry is about the stars; and very justly, for they are themselves the most classical of poets.” That’s a thought good enough to cast me among the heavens and lure me into my sleepytime journey.

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I save the page, close the book, rest it atop a precarious tower, snap off the lamp, listen to Liz’s breathing, and drift away to childhood.

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The words to a nighttime lullaby appear from somewhere. The long-ago voice of comedian Judy Canova lulls me to sleep with her closing song, “Go to sleepy, little baby…go to sleepy, little baby. When you awake you’ll patty-patty cake…and ride a shiny little pony…”

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Such fond memories stay with me and tap me on the shoulder at the oddest times, reminding me that the only quest worth my precious time is the daily quest for that shiny little pony

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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WATCHING YOU WHILE YOU WATCH ME WATCHING YOU

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Several generations ago, before your time but during my time, I was actually a small child. Hard to believe, isn’t it?

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Because I, like you, began life as a child, my evolution toward adulthood was an adventure. An adventure worth examining along the way, worthy of examination many years later—like right now, for instance.

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As a young’un, I learned everything the hard way. Each experience was a first-time happening. Each moment was exciting. Each time I closed my eyes, then opened them, I saw something fresh and new.

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I did a lot of pondering back then.

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I punch the rear view button of my time machine. I select Five Years Old.

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And here I am, back in my childhood hometown.

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I’m getting dressed for the day, layering myself with protective clothing, when I realize someone is secretly watching me getting dressed. I look at my bare feet, and there is the culprit. Superman is staring straight at me from the front cover of a comic book.

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This Superman needs to remain safely inside his pages. He doesn’t need to observe my personal life, except when he’s keeping enemies at bay.

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I turn the comic face-down and continue grooming. I’m safe in my room and Superman is safely napping inside the pages I will be turning shortly as I observe his exploits. I always feel safe when Superman is nearby.

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I’m later breaking my fast at the kitchen counter, munching on toast and reading the labels of a cereal box and a Pet Milk container. Suddenly, I realize that the can’s label is illustrated with a picture of a cow peeking out from inside a can of Pet Milk.

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Hmm…

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Looking closer, I see that the picture of the canned cow depicts a picture of a canned cow. I squint to see how many pictures of canned cows inside pictures of canned cows there might be, each one smaller than the one before.

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This infinitude of cows disappearing into atom-sized illustrations is more than I can grasp. Where does it end?

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Years from now, when I read Richard Matheson’s novel The Shrinking Man, I come to understand that the infinite diminishing of anything cannot be dealt with logically, even when I become an adult.

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The Shrinking Man steadily shrinks into infinity, never stopping. Where is he now?

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Maybe he’s enjoying life with the Pet Milk cow, knowing that all is well and safe, particularly while Superman stands guard

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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ONE AHA! MOMENT IN A DEEP SOUTH HOMETOWN

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Clarion is as clarion does…

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A brilliant sunny crystal clear breathable clarion day today, a day to drive to work and reflect upon the wonders of paradox, a day to make me feel guilty for working but work I must because I know I’ll feel guilty not doing it, a day to forget that just recently I was driving along depressed while listening to the squarunch squarunch squarunch of my faulty windshield wipers imperfectly rubbing away rain mixed with aerial scum, a day to remember that life, in all its awesome and frightening variety, can be awful and inspiring at the same moment, that one brief inhalation of beauty, one quick and silent second, can bring unexpected joy in the midst of almost any bad situation.

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If I get just enough of these nice moments of inspiration strung along to separate the cruddy and seemingly insufferable times, I feel I can keep on keeping on, I can continue making one step fit right in front of the previous step, I can take a moment to reflect upon the inner core of of me that is still a bright and happy child, pat it on the head and encourage it to stick around yet another day because I know that tomorrow is going to bring lots of stuff that will require comic relief and joyful distraction to break it down into its manageable components

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–from Jim Reed’s 1998 memoir, DAD’S TWEED COAT Small Wisdoms Hidden Comforts Unexpected Joys

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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THE SANDPAPER RAZOR MEETS THE BARBER CHAIR KID

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I’m riding the Theo A Kochs automatic barber chair, watching the barber foot-pump his metal and leather instrument higher so that he can get at my neck, the neck of eight-year-old me, back in the 1950s South. He has already draped my shoulders and torso in a checkered cloth to keep the hairs he’s about to trim from hiding under my clothes and making me all itchy.

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The barber is efficiently cutting away while continuing his running conversations with various customers who sit in a long row of chairs facing the Theo A Kochs chair. They talk of fishing and hunting and politics and street repair while thumbing through current issues of magazines like Argosy, Esquire, Field and Stream, Collier’s, Look, Life, Saturday Evening Post.

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The shop smells of old cologne and talcum and working man sweat and spittoons.

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I squirm impatiently while the barber plies his trade, his scissors and electric trimmer flashing in the sunbeams that cause the rotating storefront candy cane pole to cast its shadow across my shoes. I gaze at my shoes because I’m required to lower my head while lather is applied to my neck.

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Looking downward, I read and re-read the Theo A Kochs brand name embossed in nickel plated sheen between my feet. The freshly-stropped straight razor makes sandpaper sounds. I cringe, waiting for the barber’s hand to slip. It never does. But it might.

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What is that after-shave perfume the barber laves on my neck? What is the name of the talcum powder he dusts on my neck to ease the fresh-shave sting? Why is he shaving the neck of a pre-beard kid? I don’t understand the ritual of shave and talcum and fragrance and hair tonic, but I do know that I will not feel like I’ve really had a haircut unless I walk away smelling like something other than a real eight-year-old lad.

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The barber dramatically takes away the checkered cloth the way Dracula might swirl his cape.

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I take my feet off the Theo A Kochs brand. The shoeshine man swish-brooms the back of my shirt in an elegant gesture of manners and politeness. I walk past the rotating candy cane pole and onto the sunny streets of my Deep South village, a brand-new kid ready to face a brand-new afternoon.

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I don’t know whether the magazine-thumbing grownups ever tip the barber, though they do tip the shiner of shoes. Kids are not expected to tip, so I get to spend my extra dime across the street at Woolworth for the best bag of popcorn I will ever eat…until the next haircut

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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A DOZEN SWEETENED MOMENTS

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This morning is a morning of waiting.

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The cube-shaped room in which I wait is filled with wobbly tables, preacher-hardened chairs, a walled ever-blaring television set, a picture window overlooking a herd of automotive vehicles that seem to be dreading fates tiny and large.

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The cube room also sports a coffee maker ledge, real and artificial sweeteners, plastic stirrers, Styrofoam containers, textured paper napkins, a very large vending machine filled with all the things nobody should ever eat, all the things everybody eats anyhow.

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Oh, did I mention that the cube room is also peopled with people?

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I sit facing away from the television overlord. I can’t help but watch the waiting people, much more interesting and engaging than streamed ads and shouting interviewers.

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A slow-moving man and woman enter and search for suitable seating, their politeness and manners boldly contrasting with others in the room who are attention-locked by oblong plastic-and-metal-palmed devices.

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The device people glance blankly at me, quickly resume their internal journeys. The slow-moving couple settles in, each scanning the room for signs of life.

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An employee enters and heads for the coffee maker and says to all of us, “Anybody want a cup of coffee?” as in, “I’m willing to prepare a cup for you before I pour my own.”

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“Uh, I think that sounds good,” the woman says, a gentle smile and elegant Southern accent accompanying her voice. Her response to the question is not automatic and obligatory, but carefully considered, weighed and uttered.

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I feel comforted, hearing and seeing what we of old might call well-mannered graciousness.

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“There’s sugar and cream,” the employee notes.

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We all hear the gurgling, inhale the soothing fragrance of warming brew. And, despite aggressive messages issuing from the screen, despite impending verdicts that will eventually enter through the door, despite the dismissive attentions of lock stepped non-engagers, we share soft moments of pleasured sipping.

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There must be fifty ways to view moments like this, most of them silent and barely noticed. But these are the moments I recall so vividly, later in the day.

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This Deep South village contains so much good will, if only I take the time to cherish it.

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I imagine that there are thousands of villages like this throughout the world, where other people recognize each other and for a brief span ignore the irrepressible need for conflict that jumps at us now and then.

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I hope I will experience a dozen moments of kindness today. I hope you will, too

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 © Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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THINGS BETTER LEFT UNSEEN

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A puff of blue smoke appears from around the corner of a village structure.

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Like Native American signals of yore, this puff announces an upcoming event. An instant later, Bobby J. appears mid another cloud of smoke.

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He heads my way, his exhalations as powerful as his inhalations.

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Bobby J. is this moment’s Wyatt Earp. He struts along, cigarette in one hand, unholstered phone in the other, yelling into  his palm and sucking in as much of his portable stormcloud as possible.

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Bobby J. is primed for action, his close-shaved head and confused tuft of beard framed by a black tee-shirt emblazened with a Harley slogan. He lopes along, enclosed in an emotional tirade aimed at the phone, his angered breathing fiercely sucking in and spewing words and smoke.

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I stand in Bobby J.’s way on the cracked sidewalk, so I quickly move aside, pretending to be oblivious to his drama. I sweep leaves and butts toward the beckoning gutter.

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He chugs past me and turns the next corner. Burnt tobacco and echoed invectives dissipate.

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Did I want to witness this? Doesn’t matter, does it? Things happen and fade away.

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Bobby J. is his own story imprisoned within his own fate. But he is suddenly immortalized this instant, a living image embedded in this story.

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Will future readers recognize him by my description? Will his cameo appearance in front of the bookstore roll with life’s credits at the end of the show?

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Will Bobby J. ever realize how unique and special he is? Will those who love or hate him find anything remarkable about him? Will there ever be an accounting of the good he has done, the bad he has done, the kindnesses he dispensed, the bumbling-along image he projects?

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This is not for me to know. Whatever will be will be.

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All I know is that I did what any artist might do. I paid attention to him when there was no-one else around to feel his moment.

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There you have it. I guess this page is his gift unopened

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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