Listen to Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast https://youtu.be/dFVNuGPwONw

or read the transcript below:

.

Life, actually…

.

SOONER OR LATER SOMETHING SUPER COULD HAPPEN

.

Hear Jim’s podcast at https://youtu.be/LtczGvPRDw0

or read the transcript below:

.

Life, actually…

.

RUMINATIONS OF A DOWN SOUTH RUMINATOR

.

Whenever I begin writing a love letter to my people—the Down Southers who surround me—I go kind of blank.

.

This could be because I’m trying too hard to be understandable.

.

In this love letter to my people I want to be both specific and eloquent at the same time, so that my words will stay around for a while.  We writers live with this impossible hope, the hope that something profound will issue forth from our innards as we ply our trade.

.

Of course, this does not happen frequently.

.

So, why is writing a love letter so difficult?

.

As inwardly-focused as we authors are, it is amazing we ever see anything objectively. The poetry of life, the adventure of life, can get in the way of specificity. We are stuck in our own dreams.

.

So how do I get this letter written?

.

An answer hurls itself at me in a rumpled note I just retrieved from the floor of my writing room. This note contains a quote by one of those long ago thinkers we might have heard of but of course never voluntarily study, Jean Jacques Rousseau.

.

Now what in the world would someone like Rousseau, who lived several hundred years ago, have to say that in any way would apply to an obscure writer ensconced in the Deep South?

.

Well, here is this guy’s quote that stays with me and propels me forward:

.

“To write a love letter we must begin without knowing what we intend to say, and end without knowing what we have written.”

.

That’s it. That’s the thought that taunts and instructs me.

.

If I’m to write a love letter to the Down South people I’ve lived among these many decades, I have to stop ruminating, stop over-thinking, stop examining…I have to plunge into the task like any young’un who is confused and motivated by the passion of the moment.

.

I have to write that letter full-blast, straight-forwardly, unapologetically, forgetting the rules of etiquette and grammar. What good is love if it has to be fussed over, gussied up, lipsticked beyond recognition, self-consciously faked?

.

So, I’ll get started. I will write my love letter in a burst of passion and joy. I will put it aside unread until I can catch my breath.

.

Then, as Miles Davis once said about his music, I’ll play it first and tell you what it is later

.

© 2025 A.D. by Jim Reed

 Life, actually…

Life, actually…

.

SOMEWHERE BEYOND THE WILD BLUE YONDER

.

The planet-sized eyedrop is on its way from squeezed-rubber tube to human eyeball (mine).

.

It isn’t always the size of my field of vision. It starts out as a small droplet, then gravity drops it through six inches of humid space all the way into my in-between blinks. By the time it splashes, by the time I involuntarily blink, this space traveler has done its duty. It is bigger than the universe, then disappears into my innards, then helps heal my momentary affliction. Then is no more.

.

During the time I am this little kid lying abed, I receive many nurturing gifts not of my own choosing. These many years ago I simply go with the flow. Grownups manage my well-being, my health, my energy. From all this attention comes the free time needed to grow and develop, to become who I am, to become who I will be should all go well.

.

Now, at the over-ripened age of eight score-plus, I feel the effect of those eyedropper years. I see how a thousand fold acts of kindness thrust me gently into the future I now inhabit.

.

All those implements my elders employed to keep me viable were important, more instrumental in enabling my good and future life than I ever realized.

.

The objects that kept me going were all larger than life when I was a tad: planet-sized wash cloths, diapers, syringes, thermometers, towels, bandages, ointments, unguents, sanitizers, protective clothing, clippers, shampoos, soaps, braces, crutches, supports, vitamins, polishes, buffers, tweezers, magnifiers…

.

And, most importantly, planet-sized loving hands were always present to administer these tools.

.

I think about all the dedication and drive it took for parents and family and friends and professionals to keep me going. They patched me up, encouraged me, pointed out the good opportunities, warned me of the bad, took me in when I became disoriented or sad. Cared for me without condition.

.

Did I thank them enough? Did I fail to thank many others? Will I ever be able to reward these interplanetary-sized good-hearted Good Samaritans? No way.

.

All I can do is become the Samaritan of Right Now. I can pay it forward by closely attending to those who need me, even to those who don’t know they need me.

.

The kindest thing I can do is silently and invisibly lend a giant hand where needed. The most unselfish thing I can do is quietly help someone, then quietly fade away.

.

Only then can I breathe easily, smile at life, watch out for potholes

.

Jim Reed © 2025 A.D.

Hear Jim’s Red Clay Diary 4-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/_JuTgDw1GDg

or read the manuscript below:

.

Life, actually…

.

GRANDMOTHERLY ADVICE TO A FORLORN MEMORY RETRIEVER 

.

“Be a good boy. Always do the right thing. Do not waiver from the true path.”

.

This is the kind of advice my grandmother gladly and generously dispensed whenever I would listen. It was good advice. Commonsense advice. Grand Vizier-level advice.

.

It was the kind of advice that any wise village elder possesses, even to this day.

.

The only problem is, my grandmother and her generation seldom got to lay out their truths and wisdoms to upcoming generations. Nobody got to converse one-on-one with elders. Life is distracting and noisy. Distractions and noise gain much more attention than quietly spoken tutorials about love and generosity and behavior and kindness.

.

My grandmother was venerated. We loved her. We simply did know that our inexperienced language and her seasoned language could get together and share things, things that might make life more understandable, more tolerable.

.

She was of her generation, we were of ours. We did not know the language of acceptance and diplomacy.

.

I wish I had known all this as a child. Maybe I could have skipped some of the more difficult episodes that deflected my growth as a mature adult.

.

I am now ready to listen, Granny. But you are not here to share time with me.

.

But wait—there’s more.

.

Truth be known, I can share wisdoms with my grandmother. All it takes is a deep breath or two, a few furlongs of memory retrieval, the willingness to pay close attention to every single memory and impression of Granny that I ever had.

.

Granny can talk with me because I know what she would say in so many words if she were here, today.

.

Having birthed eight kids, she would help me understand how to navigate childrearing. She would point out the potholes and show me how to heal or correct a boo-boo. “Here’s an example of how I did this,” she would say. I would listen and observe.

.

“Here’s how I dealt with a bully in my day. Listen and learn.”

.

Yes, children of the Down South soil, there have always been bullies about, and there have always been people who knew how to quell the behavior of bullies. I know how Granny’s generation did it. I just had not realized that she, being of that generation, knew the knowable—the things more people of solid upbringing learn from experience, learn from observing their own elders.

.

To spank or not to spank? Granny knew what grannies know, that setting solid and loving boundaries—and enforcing them—gets you through hard moments, no spanking necessary.

.

Got it?

.

You can list your own wisdoms and observations, things that your elders have outlined and demonstrated to you silently, no one-on-one deep chats needed.

.

Go back and examine your memories. Pay attention to lessons that were clearly on display, lessons you and I ignored at the time because we thought we knew better.

.

Now, at our present age, we at last know that we did not know what we needed to know. Our wild inexperienced ideas and notions were simply that. We guessed at things based on gut and fear and unfiltered reaction, but we did not yet have experience on our side.

.

We now know that we never did know everything we needed to know. We now know that in order to know that which is worth knowing, we actually need to admit we don’t know, we have to admit that it is time to tune in to those who loved us and are still waiting patiently to help us out

.

© Jim Reed 2025 A.D.

Hear Jim’s 4-minute audio podcast:

https://youtu.be/Z_SMHqWgBKg

or read his transcript below:

.

Life, actually…

.

COWLICK BLUES

.

Seeing as how long-buried childhood memories linger and magnify as the seasons speed past, my red clay diary is once again victim of the words that tumble out…

.

Just as the 1950s rise and capture the world, I am barely a decade old today. I am gazing into the fogged bathroom lavatory mirror, attempting to tame a forehead cowlick.

.

I still have hair back then.

.

During this era of growth spurts, cowlicks take on an enormous importance. The idea of good grooming looms over me. Even though I am not quite sure what good grooming is.

.

I do not actually know how I look to other people at age ten. Each passing reflection reveals a different version of yours truly. I don’t know which version depicts the real thing to onlookers.

.

Since I cannot view the back of my head, l concentrate on what is visible. Forehead (yikes! a looming pimple!), eyes (I can only see my direct gaze, no idea how eyes look from a sideview.), mouth (chapped lips I understand), chinny chin chin (Where’s that dimple that’s supposed to make me look like a movie star?), teeth (gaps and enamel, gums and tongue), eyebrows (Do I look cooler if I raise one slightly?), runny nose (too big? too small? too wimpy?).

.

And so on.

.

When you’re ten with no duties and appointments and responsibilities eating up your schedule, this is one of the last years you can laze about and ponder such silly things as whether that stubborn cowlick will ever be tamed.

.

I re-gaze into the mirror.

.

The cowlick seems large and obvious to the world. Will people stare? Will they laugh? Will they feel sorry for me? Do they already shun me?

.

“There goes that neighborhood boy with that grotesque cowlick.”

.

I comb my hair, add a dab of Wildroot Cream-Oil Hair Tonic (“It’s made with soothin’ lanolin.”). I wonder whether I look more like Fearless Fosdick than Jim Reed.

.

I wonder for a moment whether the hair tonic will divert attention from the cowlick.

.

Being ten years of age, these enormous ideas and ruminations disappear in a jiffy as soon as I exit the bathroom, grab a piece of buttered toast and issue forth into the small front-yard world of whoever I wish to pretend to be this beautiful sunshined morning.

.

Playmates await, redbugs pounce, the milk delivery truck revs up from the next block over, and my imaginary world once more garners all remaining attention.

.

In the rush of oncoming playground projects, cowlicks and pimples and raised eyebrows mean nothing.

.

Now I can just be a kid who never once noticed a mirror

.

© 2025 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s story: https://youtu.be/wEegSYk_b64

or read his transcript below:

.

Life, actually…

.

LEGO MY JACKS AND SET ME FREE TO TRIP UP THE WORLD

.

“Ow!”

.

The hardwood floor vibrates as a heavy foot hops.

.

“Ouch!”

.

There’s that adult voice bellowing pain, bouncing off the plaster ceiling of our tiny home many decades ago.

.

I’m in deep trouble, so I slouch my way into the living room to find my mother sitting and rubbing her foot.

.

Mom frowns at me, “Somebody left your sister’s jacks on the floor!”

.

I am the only kid on hand. I have to take the heat.

.

You see, my trusty Reader, this incident happened so long ago I’ve lost count. But it has a familiar ring.

.

I recall loving parents carefully instructing small children to pick up their Legos and place them at a safe distance from adult bare feet. This is very recent.

.

Hard plastic Legos and other improvised prickly devices (IPDs?) such as six-pointed jacks hide out under chairs and beds and counters and tv trays. Just waiting to attract human fragility. They tend to wax and wane as fashions visit and revisit.

.

Fortunately for kids, there’s always some newfangled toy on the market to replace hidden Legos and jacks and Tinkertoys and Erector sets and Lincoln Logs and marbles and toy soldiers.

.

There is always something available to attract tender feet.

.

Maybe the Ouch! and Ow! exclamations are part of the game, the game of scattering tiny landmines onto unsuspecting floors for the entertainment of small kids who just want to see what happens next when playtime turns boring.

.

I suppose IPDs will always be around. Just as long as self-entertaining young’uns strew their gags and gadgets onto fertile territory

.

© Jim Reed 2025 A.D.

Life, actually…

.

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

https://youtu.be/pLVpV3AoNNw

or read Jim’s story below:

.

THE MERRY ADVENTURES OF SAINT LEIBOWITZ

.

.

“Ewww…”

.

First word that comes to mind when I see what I see at Dollar Tree this morning.

.

“Ewww…”

.

I’m examining a small sealed cardboard box labeled “Brunswick Chicken Salad with Crackers,” which is “Ready to Eat.” Ready to eat? How could something sealed in a can, possibly for years, be Ready to Eat?

.

The expiration date or “Best By” date is fourteen months away. What could possibly make this food product last so long? In my refrigerator at home, this would come to look like swamp residue in a week. The manufacturer must know something I don’t know—maybe that as a consumer I’ll probably eat anything if I’m hungry enough. And today I am hungry.

.

OK. Let’s look at the package again. “Pre-mixed Chicken Salad (thank goodness they mixed it for me–I’m so weak from hunger and lack of willpower) Ready to Eat with Five Buttery Crackers (Ritz-like crackers…Ritzy crackers?) and Convenient Spoon.” Wow! They even thought to enclose a spoon, not realizing a truly hungry consumer will eat with fingers or even toes if desperate enough.

.

Oh, and the small potted-meat-size can within the box “Now has an Easy-Peel Foil Lid.” Gosh, I don’t even have to carry around a can opener for my quick snacks.

.

I fear reading the contents label, but I do note that the main ingredient is “Cooked Chicken.” I do hate it when the chicken is raw.

.

So, here I am, wanting to eat something, anything, so I can meet my deadline and get on with the day. The Bumble Bee Seafoods company of San Diego has gone to all this trouble to rescue me.

.

How could the contents of this can possibly taste good? Well, at least I can eat the crackers should the chicken smell funny. And, of course, I’m only wasting a dollar twenty-five if nothing turns out right. And also, I don’t ever have to eat this stuff again.

.

I recall the large sealed Civil Defense can at my shop, retrieved unopened from a bomb shelter and manufactured to have indefinite shelf life contents. The container is more than sixty years old and the crackers within still edible, according to one of my customers who actually opened one recently.

.

“Dear Family, in case you find me lying in shock beneath of pile of fast-food wrappers, allow me to document the adventures leading up to this possible outcome.” That’s the note I’ll leave on my body in case things don’t work out. This little story will suffice.

.

Being a brave sort at times, I tear open the little box, unseal the crackers, peel back the lid and bid farewell to Saint Leibowitz, the patron saint of all post-apocalyptic sealed food containers

.

© Jim Reed 2025 A.D.

Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast at https://youtu.be/r8lxtWu6aEg

or read the transcript below:

.

Life, actually…

.

FLYING MONKEYS R US

.

Ages and ages ago, legacy author Robert Louis Stevenson wrote these words:

.

“All speech, written or spoken, is in a dead language until it finds a willing and prepared hearer.”

.

What in the world did RLS mean?

.

As a child back in days of yore, I understand this utterance in my own imaginative way.

.

Running through unmown grass in humid summertime fields, I yell, “Watch out for flying monkeys!” causing my playmates to duck to the ground half-terrified and half-laughing. The idea of flying monkeys comes to life for a split second. Of course there are no flying monkeys but our designated leader makes us doubt this fact. Luckily, a kind of reality-based common sense prevails and we realize that flying monkeys are not going to happen. For now.

.

So RLS knew we kids of earth live in two worlds simultaneously, a world where we can believe the unbelievable just for fun. And later, as adults, this honed skill means we can believe the unbelievable at our convenience.

.

But somewhere in the caverns of our minds most of us do not lose sight of the fact that the idea of flying monkeys is merely a useful tool, employed to distract ourselves from realities we either don’t understand or don’t want to face.

.

We humans are a playful species, alternating our time between things we wish were true but aren’t,  and things we know all too well to be truths that stolidly won’t go away.

.

If I can’t deal with the idea of some awful truth I race to find the flying monkeys.

.

Flying monkeys I can deal with

.

© 2025 A.D. by Jim Reed

.

Life, actually…

.

SOMEDAY I’LL GET AROUND TO READING A BOOK

.

“I’m thinking about getting back into reading,” a customer says thoughtfully. He is slowly stretching his hand toward a provocatively-titled book. He never quite touches it, as if doing so would signal a commitment. He withdraws his hand and his thought.

.

“I don’t have time to read yet,” explaining that work and school and media constantly get in the way of something extra-curricular and frivolous like taking time to read.

.

I try to hide my nerdy dismay at the thought of never reading for pleasure. My disapproval will in no way be helpful.

.

Each day at the bookshop words like these issue forth from the mouths of customers and patrons and browsers and tire-kickers and booklovers and bookdeniers.

.

“Oh, man, I have read every book in that series. Now I’m re-reading it until the next sequel comes out.” This from an enthusiastic fan of bookworld. She lives for each page. She is excited about it.

.

So, these are two of the extremes I encounter at my shop. There are gung-ho readers and there are impotent non-readers. That’s the world I live in.

.

Now and then I attempt to inspire a nonreader. I’ll open a Robert Service title and read lustily, “There are strange things done in the midnight sun…That would make your blood run cold…But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee.” Sometimes this does the trick. A true story about cremation that scares you and makes you laugh at the same time. Some great writing!

.

If a nonreader is wavering with signs of curiosity I’ll hand him a Calvin and Hobbes collection, “In my opinion, we don’t devote nearly enough scientific research to finding a cure for jerks.” Calvin says that.

.

Or, a page from Dylan Thomas will sometimes perk up a bored browser, “Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.”

.

How can anyone deny the childhood wonder evoked from this passage?

.

And there is always Ray Bradbury, thank goodness: ”Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there. It doesn’t matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that’s like you after you take your hand away.”

.

Best to quote Atticus Finch if all else fails: ”The one thing that doesn’t bide by majority rule is a person’s conscience.”

.

Hey, these are cheap thrills. These passages and thoughts are sleeping between white pages, awaiting resuscitation.

.

Once in a while, once in a blue moon, every now and then, just when the stars are in their proper places, I do manage to slip into someone else’s imagination a drop or two of inspiration. And even more rarely, the nonreader begins to show signs of curiosity, signs of interest. Most rarely, a reader is reborn.

.

And my work is done for the day

.

© 2025 A.D. by Jim Reed