Catch Jim’s 3-minute podcast on youtube:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=efyI2eRhTUA

or read his transcript:

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Life, actually…

.

A STUPEFYING GATHERING OF WHAT-IFS

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What if hand-wringing and whining, whimpering and wailing, complaining and cussing, all went away for a day?

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Bear with me. I’m rolling out a fresh thought for your consideration. Ignore at will.

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What if politeness and good manners came over us and made us civil and courteous for 24 hours?

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I’m trying hard to imagine these what-ifs. I’m trying hard to take these what-ifs seriously, just for the fun of it. Just in case straining my imagination might actually change the texture of the earth for a day.

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How to apply these what-if thoughts? An idea: What if we elected or selected our leaders solely on the basis of politeness and good manners, civility and courtesy, kindness and respect? Would the world shift for the better?

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I’m not being delusional, I’m just thinking beyond the borders of my limitations. A little exercise couldn’t hurt.

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What if we had something better to do with our time—something better than hand-wringing and whining, whimpering and wailing, complaining and cussing?

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Granted, it might take some adjusting, this living in a land bereft of meaningless sniping at one another. We’d have to unwind, let down, cool it, chill, relax, take time to chat and compare notes about life and love and the pursuit of happiness.

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What if anxiety and all-stove-upness just settled to the ground? What if we learned that easy breathing could be breath-taking? Even fun?

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What if we reached out to just one person we normally wouldn’t be caught alive with, and just introduce our better selves? What might we learn? What might surprise and please us?

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What if each of us took eleven minutes each day to sit motionless and make a list of well-meaning what-ifs?

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Ok, I know that’s a stretch. Would you settle for eight minutes a day?

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What if this pleasant serial thinking caught on?

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What if we all got a case of the what-ifs

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 4-minute podcast on youtube:https://youtu.be/Q3ld67RV7aw

or read the transcript below…

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Life, actually…

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THE IMPORTANCE OF TURNING ORDER INTO CHAOS AND CHAOS INTO ORDER

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I’m about to wax philosophic right now, so you may wish to duck and run.

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If you are feeling adventuresome, you can stay around for a couple of minutes and hear me out. Either way, my condolences to your state of mind.

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Here goes.

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Maybe I’m living too long, but I still enjoy the journey so much that I keep hanging on. After all, I long to see how you and yours turn out, in the scheme of things.

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I know too much already about the things I do not want to know too much about, and I will never know enough about the things I really want to know everything about.

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In order to maintain any kind of positive attitude about living and loving and laughing, I have to be flexible. Sometimes I have to be wishy, other times I must be washy. I notice that if I decide Life is just one single one-way journey upon a smooth and shiny track, I am bound to be brought up short and chastised by the Cosmos. Sometimes, one track serves me well, other times I have to switch to another track to avoid mayhem.

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I know now that I never know the right way all the time, no matter how hard I wish, no matter how hard I push.

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The above chaotic rendering of bumper-car thoughts is obviously one of the reasons that GOIN’ FISHING was invented, the reason taking a long walk became fashionable, the reason that karate classes and meditation groups and garden clubs and horse breeding exist, the reason playgrounds have slides and monkey bars. All these things and all things similar to these things are mandatory in order to momentarily distract us from the chore of contemplating the uncontemplatable Universe. The more contemplating, the more confusion…the more Facing Reality, the more sleeplessness.

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Quick, take me out to the ballgame before I scramble my brain.

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Since the Cosmos has no sense of humor, you and I have to maintain our bemusements. Our amusements. Our bouts of unrestrained laughter. Laughter at the senselessness of things. Laughter at our conceits and struts and fantasies.

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Laugh and the world will or will not laugh with you. Regardless, the laughter must be revived every Monday morning, just to produce the energy required to face down the obstacles. A good laugh breaks the pattern for a split second. A good laugh helps me re-boot my attitude. A good laugh at its best breeds yet another good laugh, and another.

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This is great for indigestion, this burst of laughter. It is also a very human way to deal gently with the concerns of our companions—the people we are on earth to help and encourage and nurture.

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If I can put aside my concerns over things I cannot alter, then I can concentrate on offering a helping hand to my fellow travelers as we figure out how to get through the week in one peaceful piece.

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You can breathe now. At ease! Please proceed with your daily journey. May you love long, live long, laugh long

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 4-minute Youtube podcast at https://youtu.be/fP86PhnxTHU

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Life, actually…

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THE SHOP OF TRICKLE-DOWN BEAUTY

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“Omygod!”

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A first-time visitor bursts into the old bookstore and shouts his reaction.

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He is in awe of the unexpected sights on display before him.

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“This is wonderful!”

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He instantly begins to touch each ancient book and artifact as if making sure he is not dreaming.

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His broad smile pushes his eyeglasses upwards an inch, amazement flushes his face and forces grunts of appreciation into the bookie air.

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He spies the proprietor and eagerly asks, “Is everything here for sale?”

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Proprietor replies with tongue in cheek, “Yes. It is a store!” He and the customer chuckle in unison. The customer wanders the aisles in stunned awe. The proprietor awaits the customer’s next reactions.

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All the customer can see during his hour of browsing is the beauty and the wonder of old memories in display.

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He will pass along his thrill to family and friends for years to come. He will become an evangelist of things lost, then found, in an ancient shop.

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The visitor eventually exits the shop and leaves behind the echoes of his joy. The proprietor inhales the silence, brushes dust off a stack of volumes.

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“Geez, what a mess!”

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A new visitor enters the store, frowning his disdain for what is before him.

.

“Is this a junk place?”

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“No, it’s a bookstore.”

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The visitor sniffs, casually opens a rare tome, says, “Does anybody ever buy this stuff?”

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The proprietor is patient. “Yes, we make a living.”

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“How do you know where anything is?” He fails to see order and logic.

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“I’m the owner. I know where everything is. I’m happy to find whatever you are looking for.”

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“Well, of course, a place like this probably doesn’t carry what I want.”

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The proprietor smiles. Nothing is going to sadden him this fine day.

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“You wouldn’t happen to have a copy of THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO, would you?”

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The proprietor walks past the customer, picks up a century-old unabridged CRISTO and hands it over. The customer, not expecting this, doesn’t quite know what to do with the book. He seems afraid to open it.

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“Uh, I would prefer a paperback (as in, less expensive) copy.”

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Proprietor reaches behind him and produces an abridged version of CRISTO and patiently exchanges it for the older copy.

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“Uh, yes, I’ll get this one.” He is surprised.

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As they walk to the front of the shop, they exchange pleasantries. The proprietor hopes for a return visit, the customer just wants to escape.

.

The proprietor is an optimist. If he were not an optimist he would not be operating an old bookstore in a beautiful old village all these years. He even holds out hope for the disdainful customer, based on his own concept of trickle-down politeness. He knows that he has implanted an image in that customer’s mind—the customer will forever know that at least he was treated with patience and respect, he will forever know that, should a grandchild or neighbor wish to find a good read, this may be the shop he recommends.

.

“This is so lovely! I knew I’d love this place.”

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The next customer arrives just in time to chase away the darkness

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Life, actually…

.

FIFTY WAYS TO SEIZE THE DAY

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Some mornings I grumble aloud, roll over, sit at the bed’s edge, creak upright, test my balance on the ancient hardwood floor, then proceed in a disorderly fashion to the bathroom.

.

Is this how you start the day, too?

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There are other ways to face down the impending waking hours. As the weeks roll forth, these are some of those ways:

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Sunshine peeps past the bedroom’s slatted blinds and parted curtains. At least one ray zaps me into wakefulness. I lie face up, staring at the ceiling and its dangling fan. Something makes me smile—maybe a funny incident that happened yesterday. I grin and arise and wobble towards shower and shampoo and washcloth and comb.

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Another morning, birds chirp and get past my dream barriers and bring me to consciousness. I dare to raise one eyelid, testing whether this is slumber or reality. After some mulling I open the other eye and get on with the day, hoping for the best, bracing for whatever may come.

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See what I mean? There must be fifty ways to approach the days.

.

I’m beginning to look forward to the next morning and the next. I see them as adventures to be lived, challenges to be faced or avoided, revelations that may diminish or expand the universe.

.

This morning I lie awake wrangling a whole mess of thoughts and feelings that overlap and slither about. Past regrets, future fears, wolves slurping at the gates, confusions and contusions of everyday life—they all join paws and dance around me, mocking and encouraging and berating me and loving me all at once. This can only mean one thing. I gotta get out of this bed, shake them off, and sally forth to face my responsibilities and vices.

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So there.

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One more morning:

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I lie staring at the darkened ceiling. I extend my hand to see whether Liz is abed or about. She’s not here, so I listen for clues. Shifting floors, shower, hair dryer, distant zoom voices. When I finally triangulate her, I slip out of bed, gather laundry basket prospects, and head for another morning. A morning in which I will descend to the kitchen, wave to Liz as she zooms her meeting, search for the fluid of choice, stare mindlessly into the refrigerator for a never-present miracle meal, and gird my loins for whatever mysterious adventures lie ahead

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast on youtube:  https://youtu.be/hqSLStgRM84

or read the transcript below:

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Life, actually…

.

LOTS OF NOTHINGS SOMETIMES BECOME SOMETHINGS

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“Once more, I yearn to be kind and young and sweet and dancing on air.

Just once more.”

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An octogenarian author adds this quote to his current manuscript. He’s about to publish a new book. It is strange to contemplate the quote, since he does not know how it happened.

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A second quote issues forth:

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“Ever notice how you don’t know for sure until you know for sure?”

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Is this profound or just plain silly? Again, the author has no way of knowing.

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Like many writers, he has learned to let it all rain down. He has learned to regard every single thought as special and unique. He has learned not to discard or judge each thought himself. He has learned to allow readers to make their own judgements as to whether these thoughts should endure. He must await the reactions of readers. All ego must be put aside.

.

The reader knows.

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The author abides.

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The manuscript is about to become a book, the book is about to be opened, the reader is about to laugh or weep or grimace, depending on which page is turned.

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Over a fifty-year period, the author has squirreled away hundreds of thoughts on scraps of paper. He knows that each thought has to be marinated and aged until it takes on meaning and depth.

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No joke.

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It is difficult to explain this writing technique, but it works for this particular author during this particular lifetime, and that is all he needs to know.

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So, the octogenarian author plies his trade, prepares his manuscript, takes final notes on original and puzzling thoughts that flail about for years before explaining themselves.

.

The author activates the spigot. The reader drinks and judges. The verdict  soon animates itself

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

.

Listen to Jim’s podcast: http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/writersblocksnowglobe.mp3

.

or read his story below:

.

Life, actually…

.

WRITER’S BLOCK SNOW GLOBE

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Writers, authors, tellers of stories, poets, purveyors of enhanced realities, composers of  realistic mythologies…we all have one thing in common. The prospect of coming down with something called Writer’s Block.

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Some of us could use a dose of Writer’s Block. These folks suffer from Multisyllabic Reflux, the inability to hush up and pay attention to the silences and pauses between thoughts.  They just can’t stop themselves from unedited wordflow.

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Others freeze up when it comes time to utter or compose or write or in some way begin a story. They await a miracle or an inspiration or a Voice.

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In my own case, I do not have Writer’s Block. My stories never seem to end, always appear to be waiting to pounce onto the keyboard or sheet of paper. Because of this, I have to be careful which tales are ready to be shared, which need to age first, which would be interesting to anybody outside of Me. And that, I do not always know.

.

So I suppose that editing and vetting become most useful skills. The story is there, now I just have to shape and guide it into the appropriate format.

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I’m at the checkout counter in a Dollar General Store in a nearby rural county. I ask, “Could you direct me to the Kleenex?” The nicely-dressed elderly clerk replies, “Peanuts in the can?”

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“Uh, no…”  I begin.

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“Oh, you want them in the bags?”

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“Er, I don’t think they come in bags.” Now I realize she may have a hearing problem. How to communicate?

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“Kleenex, you know, like, tissue (I point to my nose).”

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“Oh, yeah,” she realizes what I want. “Well, I don’t know…” She looks over at the tall booth where an employee is bent down to her paperwork, oblivious of all store activity but listening intently to any words floating in the air.

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“Dorothy, do you know?”  Dorothy just shrugs and continues looking down at whatever she’s doing in the manager’s high castle.

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I smile and motion to the clerk not to worry, then wander off to find some aisle that looks like Kleenexville. I eventually stumble upon facial tissues and fail to find them in either bag or can.

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I take my box to the lady at the counter and find that she knows how to make change backwards and aloud, the way they used to make change way back when. I bask in this experience because it reminds me that my mother also knew how to make change from her clerking days at F.W. Woolworth and R.L. McGee General Merchandise.

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I tote my flimsy white plastic bag to the exit door, wishing the clerk a happy day and a good life. She doesn’t catch the last part, but I carry her smile with me.

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And that’s my little story. There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?

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By now you may be grumbling, “Well, he may not have Writer’s Block, but I do, and this anecdote doesn’t help me at all.”

.

May I say this about that?

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All I did in telling my story was shake the Writer’s Block Snow Globe a bit. Whenever things settle down and verge on stagnation, I pick up the globe, shake it, watch how its contents flutter and swirl and settle down into entirely new configurations. Then, like reading tea leaves, I gaze intensely and imagine what’s under those flakes, what secrets are awaiting revelation, what joys and horrors are ready to spring.

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And out comes a story. I don’t have to make anything up. Life is brimful of so many lost moments that I can merely reach my hand into the miasma and come up with a gem not of my own making. As a writer, all I have to do is pass this gem on to anybody who cares to read these words.

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Too simple, too easy, you say.

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Well, it only took me several decades to discover this secret, so it may take you a while, too. Once you establish the rhythm of the snow globe routine, you might have an aha! moment. Or not. But in your search for the right ritual you could stumble upon your own method.

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At least I caused you to consider it

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

.

https://youtu.be/HjB4DcZSxW8

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/laughterinthefiefdomoffife.mp3

or read his story below:

Life, actually…

.

GLOOMY TIMES REQUIRE MIRTH AND LAUGHTER

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“To laugh is to awaken.” –H.G. Wells

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Dear sad and morose denizen of the harried universe,

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What can I do to make you snap out of your gloom for a moment and unaccountably chuckle?

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As a jester, there is not much I can accomplish in terms of changing the world or making it a better place for you. I simply don’t have the skills to shift the global axis and bid cool breezes to cross your wrinkled brow.

.

When I laugh, I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing with you. More accurately, I’m not laughing at you or with you, I’m instead laughing FOR you.

.

If you have trouble finding a shard of Funny during your inexplicably unpredictable journey through life, then maybe we jesters can give you a break, cut you some slack, grant you a reprieve…just by making you laugh despite yourself.

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Innocent laughter is like an inexpensive bout of shock therapy. When something suddenly causes you to put on hold all despair and simply laugh out loud for reasons you cannot explain, then you’ve just experienced free treatment, no co-pay required, no appointment necessary, no distracted medical tech poking at your privates.

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A good laugh at the most dismal of times can, now and then, derail you and cause you to see past the bleakness, disregard whatever up till that moment seemed utterly undisregardable.

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Kind of like thinking you are streaming War and Peace but suddenly finding yourself viewing Ferris Bueller’s Day Off for the umpteenth time.

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The jesters among us help us through the gloom. That’s what they are for. Laurel and Hardy and Belushi and Pee Wee and Abbott and Costello and Murray and Carlin and Pryor and Hope and Crosby and Silverman and Argus and Diller and the Bennys Hill and Jack, and Carson and Barney Fife and Lucy and on and on and on. These jesters have a purpose. They are not to be taken lightly.

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Our jesters bring us up and out of the grind and show us how to find the ponies hidden beneath the spangled saddles.

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So, if we are able to spend some time now and then in mindless mirth, we might just barely reduce the temperature of the seething planet.

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We just might barely find solace long enough to form a plan of prankster battle against the grumpies surrounding us

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Hear Jim’s 4-minute true story on Youtube: https://youtu.be/lgaLVjL6bh0

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Life, actually…

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THE FINAL REUNION

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One entry from my lifelong Red Clay Diary. A mere 35 years ago…

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That dreaded letter arrives this morning, the one that forces me to take sudden stock of the past three decades and wax nostalgic with grins and grimaces.

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I hoped it would never come, but out of sheer curiosity I open it. The letter bearing news of my HIGH SCHOOL REUNION.

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Not just any high school reunion, but the 30th high school reunion, the one at which I will definitely begin to see signs of character on the faces of cohorts I felt would never develop any.

.

Ten years ago, at the 20th reunion, most of us approaching-middle-aged teenagers were still in the throes of having kids and divorces and mid-life crises and couldn’t take much time to look around and philosophize and get thoroughly wistful or downright depressed.

.

This time around, many of us will have given up the strong grip on ego and try to feel at ease with the fact that we are all beginning to look like our parents.

.

We won’t be able to hide the wrinkles or the facelifts, the scars or the toupees, the stretch-marks or the trifocals.

.

Much as we will try to suck in the old gut and walk macho or sexy, our arch supports and orthopedic underpants will give us away, and we’ll suddenly begin to realize that we’re all going rapidly toward a new level of aging and life-assessment, wondering whether we’ve spent nearly half a century building for a grand future or merely re-arranging the deck chairs.

.

Wonder how many pounds will be shed between now and when this celebratory dirge takes place?

.

How many suntans will suddenly appear on pale saggy skin?

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How many dollars will be spent on new clothing?

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How much fantasizing will be done about ol’ what’s-her-name on whom I had a crush but never the courage to say it aloud?

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And how many will decide not to attend for fear of being seen as they are?

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I’d prefer to be invisible and attend, because I could make wry observations about everybody without having anybody make the same about me.

.

But I guess I’ll go and try to be brave and look upon this reunion as a learning experience and something to tell you about.

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THE RED CLAY DIARY ENTRY ABOVE WAS WRITTEN 35 YEARS AGO.

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Now, yet another letter has arrived in my life, the letter that announces the 65th (count ‘em–65!) high school reunion next week.

.

Yikes!

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I grin and bear it, this news of advanced aging, advancing life, because at last all pomposity has been spent. Now I can attend and see all my remaining classmates as mirror images of myself. There’s nothing to hide anymore, since defenses and denials no longer seem to work.

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As I chuckle I read another part of the message: THIS WILL BE THE LAST REUNION.

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By the time another few years have passed I may still be enjoying the passing scenery. But I think I will have seen enough high school to last a lifetime

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© Jim Reed 2024 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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FROM BUSY BUSY TO SLOW POKEDNESS, GRIT BY GRIT

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“Is this your first time here?”

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This is a question I often ask when a browser enters the bookshop not seeming to know exactly what to do next. Curious but wary is one way to put it.

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The visitor scans the highly decorated walls, teetering bookshelves and high-piled ancient merchandise in an attempt to “get the lay of the land,” as we say Down South.

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“Yes, this is my first time.”

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“Well, I’m glad you finally arrived. Been waiting for you,” I smile and send out a test palaver. Just to see whether this newbie wishes to engage further. Or to determine whether being quiet and unconversational is preferred.

.

“Are you enjoying the town?” I’m always anxious to see whether newcomers are getting a positive first impression.

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“Well, I’ve only been here an hour or so…” the visitor hesitates, then reveals a first concern. “Tell me, I notice that people look directly at me and wish me Good Morning.” Another hesitation, but my inquisitive smile is encouraging. “Are they being sarcastic when they say that?”

.

I’m taken aback each time this kind of nervously-asked question arises, but I am also used to receiving similar inquiries, particularly from first-timers who hail from the West Coast, Northeast or even Canada.

.

I now understand what the questioner is really trying to find out: Are these locals actually friendly and engaging, or are they sending coded unwelcoming messages?

.

I welcome this kind of inquiry because it gives me a small opportunity to show them what Southern Hospitality is like.

.

“No,” I grin. “This is just the way most of us are brought up. Our mommas taught us to meet and greet everybody with polite salutations and helpfulness.”

.

I let this sink in for a second.

.

“We have this engaging way of letting you know that we actually See You, that we want to let you know we are ok. That we would like to know you better.”

.

I can see the customer is taking a breath of relief, but I also know that just saying how nice we are does not offer proof that we really are.

.

While the aisles are cruised, I occasionally check to see whether there are other questions. Along the way, we engage a bit more. I learn some personal history, the customer learns more about where to go and what to do in this friendly Southern village.

.

Once we establish the fact that grits have never been experienced, that our kind of barbeque has not been tasted, I make sure that when the store is exited, this visitor will try us out, preferably at the next destination I recommend.

.

Amazingly, this approach to greeting newbies sometimes produces positive results!

.

Hours later, the not-from-around-here browser returns to the shop, big smile and pleasant tone combined.

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“Hey, I just wanted to thank you for recommending that diner. You were right—grits are tasty if they are hot and buttered and salted.” A pause. “And I met some really interesting people!”

.

The visitor then disappears.

.

Later, while quietly shelving books, I imagine that stories will be told back home about this Down South place and its engaging populace and delicious fattening food.

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And maybe, as the customer enthusiastically reports, just maybe, they’ll return to our village someday with family and friends and spend some more time adjusting to this slow-paced, pleasant Southern Hospitality thing

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© Jim Reed 2024 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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I’LL NEVER FORGET THE DAY I TASTED A BOOK

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So…what is the first book you ever read?

.

What is the first book I ever read?

.

Allow me to crank up the Time Machine and get back to those thrilling days of yesteryear, when books slowly insinuated themselves into my life.

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First thing I do is SEE a book. It’s over there, just within reach of my chubby little uncoordinated fingers. I can roll just a quarter-roll in my crib—that’s all it takes to see this unfocused blur of colors and shapes on the cover. All I know how to do is experience the book, not knowing that it can be read and manipulated. So, I do what I know how to do: lick the cover and gnaw at the corners. It tastes different than those mashed-up things they are feeding me. It would be even tastier if I could bite off a piece and swallow it, but that comes later.

.

So, first I SEE a book. Then I TASTE it. Then I masticate a bit. Then, I lose concentration and fixate on a wiggly toy that is hanging above me. I’ll get back to the book later.

.

Next thing I know, I’m snuggled up to my mother’s chest, experiencing the words she is reading to me as they vibrate the side of my face. I can HEAR her voice with one ear. I can FEEL her voice with the other. And then I note that she is gently turning the pages, causing the colorful shapes and strange markings to shift each time. I can hear her inflections of warmth, suspense, happiness, as the pages drift by.

.

Before I know it, I’m sitting up in my own wobbly fashion and turning the pages—not necessarily one at a time, not necessarily in any order. But I am doing the book the way I know how to do it. And, now and then, I even taste it again. I’ve been known to rub a crayon onto the paper to add color and design.

.

Time flies and now I’m reciting a book to my mother and sister, pretending that I’m reading it as the pages pass, but actually I still don’t know how to read, I’m just feeding back what I’ve heard them read aloud so many times. They play along with the ruse.

.

Now, at last, I am picking out a word or two in preparation for enrolling in the first grade. I’m excited about the prospect of actually making my way through the words with some degree of understanding. And, amazingly, after a while I start to read big-lettered words on my own.

.

What is the first book I can read without assistance? Hard to tell, since the books at school are not the same books we have at home. I’m reading some in both places. But in class, I get to read a Dick and Jane and Sally story all the way through! When I become an author many years later, I am jealous of those who wrote this reader. Wouldn’t you like to be the writer whose works can be recited by heart by millions of school kids? “See Dick run. Run, Dick, run!”

.

In middle age, I discover the song that comedian Jimmy Durante co-wrote and performed with gusto:

.

 There’s one day that I recall, though it was years ago.

All my life I will remember it, I know.

I’ll never forget the day a read a book.

It was contagious, seventy pages.

There were pictures here and there,

So it wasn’t hard to bear,

The day I read a book.

It’s a shame I don’t recall the name of the book.

It wasn’t a history. I know because it had no plot.

It wasn’t a mystery, because nobody there got shot.

The day I read a book? I can’t remember when,

But one o’ these days, I’m gonna do it again.

.

Just yesterday, a pleasant family enters the shop, looking around and remarking upon the variety of things to read. One young girl is just tagging along, so naturally she’s the one I try to engage in conversation: “What do you like to read?” I ask, hoping to introduce some titles to her. She performs a sly smile and doesn’t answer because, like so many other children I meet these days, she knows her avid parents will answer for her. “Oh, she doesn’t read,” her father says. I know what he’s saying, but I play dumb just to see what kind of response I’ll get: “You mean she doesn’t know how to read?” I ask sympathetically. She grins even more deeply, waiting for her parent’s punchline. “No she just doesn’t like to read.”

.

I get it now. This lass has found a way to rebel against her parents, assert her own identity, appear cool to other kids. Normally, I get to talk up a book enough to inspire someone like her to try it, but I know there’s no way this can happen when hovering but well-meaning parents are there to puppet-master her conversation.

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So, I say what I always say whenever the situation calls for it: “Oh, too bad. Mark Twain once said that a person who does not read has no advantage over one who can’t read.”

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This is aimed at no-one in particular. The girl gets the joke but continues to play dumb. The parents remain perplexed.

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What will no doubt happen—I’ve see it often—is she will discover a spicy novel proffered by a friend and, in secret, read it voraciously, becoming hooked on reading despite herself. She will, in the tradition of all kids, hide this novel and this fact from her parents as long as she possibly can.

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The cycle goes on.

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And maybe one day she’ll hear an old Jimmy Durante song and get excited all over again

Here’s Jimmy: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uLOR8gKwyoo

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© Jim Reed 2024 A.D.

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