Catch Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast:  https://youtu.be/9AZCoJYdGUg

or read his transcript below: 

ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE RAGING IMAGINATION

Wild imaginings jotted down this very morning in my Deep South Red Clay Diary

Being incarcerated by a pandemic makes my brain rattle about at warp speed.

Every small happening assumes gigantic stature.

Maybe because the small happenings are all we have some days.

Exactly what day is it, anyhow?

For instance…

It’s a quarter to three, there’s no-one in the dental clinic parking lot but just me and me.

I’m waiting for an hour and fifteen minutes to see a dentist who may or may not spend another hour and a half doing things to me in a dental chair, things for which he will be reimbursed.

Not used to lingering, I do just about anything to avoid situations in which I must float helpless at the whim of strangers.

This means that little ol’ spoiled entitled me is whining while there are people lined up worldwide waiting for hours, days, weeks, simply hoping for food or medical care or escape…people who are on hold for 2 1/2 days on the phone attempting to complete a form for funds they will possibly never receive.

I fidget while the world is aflame. I feel guilty for fretting.

At times like this I search for solace by staring intensely at normally unstareable things.

I sit here in my automobile in the clinic parking lot, motor running, AC on, cold cola at hand, clumsily dealing with my fear of doctors, ranting to myself about how good life will be when I can get back to living it.

Is this pandemic or neurosis? Maybe both.

I focus straight ahead at the building before me. Venetian blinds–which are closed, of course–cover large windows originally made to allow view and sunshine to enter, allow those trapped indoors to see what the outside world is up to. But windows are immediately turned into blank walls by shades and blinds and curtains, causing me to wonder why windows exist at all.

My pandemic mind continues its race against slow mo’ time.

I see from this side of the windshield the red bricks on each side of the blinded window, arranged here and there in what somebody thought was a pleasant design.

In front of the brick view is a rather scraggly tree, poorly cropped, with saggy little blossoms and ratty leaves, pleading for attention and care. Most of us, the spaced-apart, are also pleading.

A dental assistant wanders about the parking lot, searching for me, the next victim, er, patient. I snap back to the present as she approaches the car, allow my touchless temperature to be taken, dutifully follow her into the cool and somber clinic. Soon I am dealing with a more immediate reality–the reality of science poking about in my mouth.

Nothing like the immediate gloved touch and metallic meanderings of a stranger to bring me up to the moment. I am distracted from these self-centered concerns by conversation and diagnosis and eventual release back into the rotating world of activity. I pay the smiling desk piper, escape to my car, get the heck out of dental world, and look forward to the routines of the socially-distanced day.

What was I so worried about, anyhow?

The post-dental city awaits my invisible presence. My pandemic brain continues to rant and wander

 © Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

THIS OLD HOUSE

This old house is just sitting here in the dusk by the side of the road that I am driving on, on my way away from Birmingham to Blountsville, just this side of nowhere.

The sun and the mellowed-red skies are behind the house, and the streaked clouds glow, casting the front of the house into shadows. Shadows that are not quite ebony, not quite grey, not yet blackened.

This old house sitting in the dusk looks abandoned but sturdy, a place you could still move into and live a life should you choose. But it looks like nobody has been here for quite some time. The windows have no inner glow to them, as if lights and lanterns have not been turned on for years.

Houses like this old house are always considered haunted by my generation and my parents’ generation. Some are scared to enter houses that are old and not quite stylish. Afraid they will run into things that a well-lighted carpeted air-conditioned suburban home would not possibly contain. Things like ghosts and spirits and nesting animals and crawly critters.

There is something different about this old house, though. It just sits here empty but ready for occupancy. It is not run down and abused like those feared old houses of yore. Nobody has vandalized it or marked it for demolition, desolation.

Nobody wants this old house right this instant.

My first thought in seeing this old house is, I’ll bet there are some really interesting ghosts in that place! But something nudges me, pushes me one notch further. No, this is a house so lonely that it would gladly welcome ghosts.

This is a house so forlorn that even the ghosts have moved out, gone on to other hauntings.

The hair stands up on the back of my neck.

Both life and death have been sucked out of the wooden floors and plaster walls.

This old house now just rests in a time zone all its own, and it is just a matter of time before either curious humans or curious ghosts take a second look and try to decide whether this elegant corpse is ready for rejuvenation, reanimation.

Or whether it is now so much a part of the landscape that it will be abandoned and willed to the winds and the rains and the scorching days and the humid nights, till it looks once more like the red clay earth from which it sprang

 © Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

Catch Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast: https://youtu.be/khtgsRte980

or read the actual transcript below:

THE 47 UMBRELLAS OF ELSEWHERE 

Raindrops plop upon my head as I rush from grammar school to home back here in the 1940s of Deep South Alabama. My book satchel filled with damp homework assignments and half an uneaten apple left over from lunch, I am on course to find safe haven before the storm ramps up.

But childhood distracts. I slow down to let the rain soak my clothes and leaden my shoes.

Taking time to scan the horizon, I see so many wonderful challenges. There are mud puddles everywhere, beckoning. There are gutters spouting off ready-made outdoor showers. There are cars rushing by to splatter me with smiles and gasps.

I begin stomping at least once in every pothole, each soaked-grass median, pausing only now and then to catch my breath beneath sheltering trees.

Adults can be spotted along the way, leaning with their umbrellas, fighting against the brisk air.

I wonder what it would be like to own my own umbrella.

As the 1950s overtake me, I begin to experiment with the idea of not being soaked to the bone after walks in the rain. I even discover a tattered umbrella and wrestle it into partial usage. This time, the raindrops no longer fall upon my head, at least.

Then, I find myself using my Mother’s umbrella as a wind-catcher when I roller skate down our little avenue, even on rainless days.

I am seldom rewarded for arriving home drenched, or showing up with Mother’s turned-inside-out umbrella. But the fun I have seems to belong just to me, since I figure everybody else in town uses umbrellas as walking-sticks or protective weapons, or as just a way to look suave and prepared.

Then, I discover Gene Kelly in the film Singin’ in the Rain. Gene is doing all the things for his audience that I always felt were forbidden to kids like me. I instantly see that he remembers what it is like to be in grammar school, finding jolly good times in the gift nature is bestowing. It is OK to go racing in the rain!

Now, decades later, as a Deep South geezer reminiscing about umbrellas, I begin to count all the umbrellas I’ve owned or borrowed or lent or destroyed during this incredibly long lifespan.

As you and I know, umbrellas have a life of their own. Umbrellas are seldom where you need them when you need them, because they tend to remain in the last place you were. No amount of compensating addresses this problem, even when I purchase a dozen and scatter them about for convenience. They still migrate and mock and remain elusive, inanimate denizens of a merrily disjointed world.

They are crying out to be forgotten. They are screaming, “Toss me aside and accept what is coming down. Find your bliss and cling to it for dear life.”

Oh, the total is 47.

47 umbrellas I’ve owned or known, and they all live in the town of Elsewhere.

And Elsewhere is where I will find them once I’m done with treading the healing waters of Now

 © Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

Listen to Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast: https://youtu.be/nYg-Sbq1gCM

or read the transcript (below):

JOLLITY AND FEAR JOIN FORCES IN A DEEP SOUTH VILLAGE

One slightly hopeful result of this self-imposed exile of anxious souls is that we have more time to regard one another. And ourselves.

Taking time to take a deep breath does not come easy. Rote habits tend to override the opportunity to pause and assess our trajectories. The day-to-day rush to meet obligations distracts us from having to deal with anything too uncomfortable. When a free moment does occur, we impulsively turn to social media to make us feel as if we are busy and engaged.

Well, here in isolation, my untethered mind is free to cast about for new experiences, fresh attitudes. I have time to re-animate routines, rearrange deck chairs, tweak  agendas, re-regard family and friends and customers and vendors and servers, reassign their value in my life.

It’s quite a task, this arising from the depths of self-concern to look about and say, “What have I been missing?”

It turns out I’ve been missing out on what passes for real life down here on earth.

It’s interesting that the more people mask-up for protection, the more they become human, engaging, humane to each other. I suppose the masks are signs that pass between us, saying something like, “I’m trying to protect myself, but I’m also trying to protect the lives and well-being of people I love as well as people I don’t know and may never know.”

Suddenly we are becoming helpmates to a common good we were too busy to notice in pre-isolation times.

I know, I know—masking up frightens us, makes us feel we’re giving up something we once treasured, makes us a tad suspicious of whether facts on hand are being manipulated, whether we are being manipulated, makes us grumpy at times.

But what I am noticing in the heart of this village in which I ply my trade and live my life…what I am noticing is that some folks are feeling pride for their tiny sacrifices, some are reaching out beyond their masks and doing good deeds for other, more vulnerable people.

In a surprising way, these masks and distancings are constantly reminding us that, as independent as we are allowed to be in this country, we are still free to do good for ourselves and others, of our own free will. We are exercising our right to show kindness to one another.

Maybe that means we are all worthwhile. Maybe there’s hope for the world.

Just sayin’

 © Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

DEEP SOUTH CASTAWAY FINDS COOKIES AND HOPE

In my evergreen memories of being a Deep South child of the 1940s and ’50s, I am re-living a moment in time…a time when reading a book was the best adventure imaginable.

I cannot wait to turn the next page of the novel Robinson Crusoe.

I lie on the hardwood floor of summertime, invisible to those around me, because I am cast away upon a deserted island in the middle of nowhere, trying to survive by wit and mettle.

Robinson and I dive deep into an uncontaminated ocean to retrieve all we can of supplies stowed away upon the sunken ship that stranded us here. We frantically look for food, shelter, protection from cannibals and mutineers. We witness the solitary beauty of nature and the best and worst of humankind.

As isolated as we are, Robinson Crusoe and I find a way to survive on our own for 28 years, never knowing whether we will be rescued and re-birthed into a cantankerous civilization, or whether our bleached bones will be discovered centuries hence by a society that has never heard of books and totally unplugged independence.

I can feel the sun’s heat and the ever-present mosquitoes and the sand between my toes on this island, and…

“Jim, where are you?” calls my Mom.

I am jarred into reality.

“Uh, here, Mother!” I am in my room, hoping that I won’t have to tear myself away from this engrossing tale.

“Time to take out the garbage,” Mom says, politely failing to mention the fact that the trash can overfloweth because of my avoidance of unavoidable chores.

Back in these childhood times, in this particular generation, all kids have chores and duties. We also have our books and toys and playmates. We are also allowed to let our imaginations run wild, as long as we do our part to maintain the family.

I groan dramatically, find an H.G. Wells bubble gum trading card to use as a bookmark, carefully hide Robinson Crusoe and Daniel Defoe from sight, should a sibling happen upon it.

I head for the kitchen and the duty, grab a fresh-baked cookie from the window sill, and sally forth to my next somewhat trashy adventure. Not as exciting as hiding from cannibals, but definitely a sign of hope…hope that, once chores are completed, I can rejoin my pals, Friday and Robinson and freshly-snared fish.

Later, as I swim the pages of the book, I am almost disappointed when rescue occurs, when 18th-century society snatches us up and makes us all comfy again.

Sure, I like my chocolate-chip snacks, but to this day I can’t rid myself of all the fantastic and deadly and hardy escapades that took place on that tiny bit of land jutting from an azure sea, deep in the center of a fertile imagination

 © Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

Hear Jim’s podcast at: https://youtu.be/4LmqQFsuPPk

or read his transcript below:

ONE LIFE ONE MOMENT IN EVERY VILLAGE, USA

 You can see him right there, next to the fast-food diner in the heart of downtown, in the center of this village.

You can see him if you pause to look.

Here’s what you can see should you take the time.

Slow down and peek right and left. Lower your windows so that you can both see and hear what is outside your vehicle.

You can see him if you dare—yes, dare—to drive slowly, just beyond your comfort zone.

Yes, there he is, right next to the eatery.

He’s lying there flat on his back on the sidewalk just inside an alcove of an old building next door, and he looks dead except for the fact that one arm is stuck straight up and a lighted cigarette is being held firmly within direct view of his upturned face.

He has his eyes closed and there’s a look of blissful satisfaction on his face since he’s just eaten some kind of generic food, judging from the wrappers lying there right next to him and the half-full paper coffee cup resting nearby.

He’s just had his meal in his own dining room of a city and is lying there on his own city-sized bed and his ceiling is as high as the sunny sky and his shade is provided at his leisure by a tall building that nobody can take away from him since he doesn’t own the building in the first place and the building isn’t going anywhere in the second place.

One good breakfast one good cuppajava one good cigarette and a nice hot village day at his disposal, and the next moment seems hours away.

And isn’t right this second just wonderful and aren’t all those ragtags passing by in their air conditioned conveyances just plain missing this split second that’s so important so precious so long

 © Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

Listen to Jim’s Red Clay Diary on youtube: https://youtu.be/asapImi3m5U

or read his transcript  below:

Return with me now to those thrilling days of yesteryear, when I had time to be a teeny, time to experience the passages of youth. SCENES FROM A MEANDERING TEENHOOD…

SOMETIMES THE ECHO ANSWERS BACK

My imaginary flying carpet carries me beyond hither, way past yon. I am having great fun until I have to pull up to a gas station to re-fuel. Did Aladdin have to do this?

Floating in outer space, awaiting free fall, I suddenly realize that I need to go to the bathroom.

I spend weeks flirting with a coed in English class. My teen longing produces zero effect until, one day, the English coed responds and indicates she would be willing to go out with me. Suddenly, I realize that I do not have a car or a driver’s license. What was I thinking?

I’m standing atop a great pile of abandoned strip mine dirt. I look across the green water below and see another pile. Maybe I can yell and create an echo. I call out, “HaaaaaaaThere!” The echo hollers back, “So whattayou want with me already?” I skedaddle and never tell anyone else what just happened. Later, I wonder where my “HaaaaaaaThere!” went off to.  Is it still circling the globe?

My teen buddies, Dot and Jim, are joining me in wading across Hurricane Creek, heading toward a little island. Suddenly, Dot jumps a couple of feet in the air and climbs aboard my back. I follow her gaze and see a large rattlesnake lazing in the sun, slowly aroused. The three of us skedaddle. Lots of skedaddling occurs when you’re a kid.

My father takes brother Ronny and me hunting in a forest. Ronny has a rusty .22 rifle and I tote the double-barreled shotgun I’ve been gifted as part of a rite of passage. Dad fires his weapon at a high-up dancing squirrel. I don’t want to kill anything or anybody. To divert attention from my wimpyness I fire both barrels at the squirrel’s tree and hope I don’t hit anything. I still have that shotgun these generations later, but I’ve never fired it since. I believe the squirrel survived and is still dancing.

My playmate Jimmy and his kid brother are excited and frightened, and a bit nervous. They just observed several UFOs in a vacant lot near their house. I am a total skeptic, meaning I want more data. Jimmy describes in great detail what the flying saucers were doing, what they looked like. He even diagrams them. He really saw them. Again, as a skeptic, I am still awaiting the verdict, even though my own brother, Tim, also had a UFO experience years later. I secretly doubt that intelligent space aliens would ever bother to visit such a flawed species as Earthlings.

My best friend since second grade, Pat, tries an ESP experiment with me one evening at her home. We sit and focus and sort of meditate, then she asks me to guess what she is imagining—a number between one and 100. For some mysterious reason, I suddenly envision a large three-dimensional number 17 emanating from her forehead and gliding through the air toward me. It is the exact number she has written down. Like the UFO experiences, this has never happened again. We could not replicate the experiment. Being fairly smart, we did not obsess about it and went on to other activities. But isn’t that interesting?

One night, walking alone with nothing to do, I gaze up at the top of a very tall smokestack on the campus of an abandoned military base called Northington. Something comes over me. Since no-one is looking at or judging me, I decide to climb that smokestack, just to test my own courage. I grab a rusty iron rung and begin the ascent, not daring to look down. When I get about ten feet up, I figure maybe I’d better descend. Descending turns out to be more difficult than I imagine, because it involves looking down. What the heck, I tell myself. I’m already this high up. Might as well go for it. The smokestack gets taller as I climb, some of the rungs are rusty and slightly loose. But I gotta do it because I’m a teen and this is one of the insane things teens do. I finally make it to the top, gaze down the large dark hole, imagine myself becoming stuck there and being found as a skeleton years later. The rest of the story does go on. Let’s just say I finally made it safely to the ground and vowed never to do anything this stupid again. And if I have done stupid things since then, I’ll not reveal them to you.

Just a few scenes from my childhood. If you don’t like these, I have others.

Why not share your own scenes with me

© Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

Hear Jim’s latest Red Clay Diary podcast:

https://youtu.be/whJQ9d36t1Y

or read the transcript below:

ICHABOD CRANE MEETS DON QUIXOTE

The gaunt and wavering cafeteria server at Fife’s Restaurant is making an occasional gesture that I do not at first understand. It is Christmastime in the nervous city, and the customer line moves steadily toward the gesturing server while other employees pile wonders upon my plate.

The fragrance of fresh corn muffins and butterbeans and meat loaf magnetically lures me into Fife’s a few times a year—but especially during pre-holiday times. This is a real diner, one that has rolled onward for decades. Loyalists return frequently for a trip to the past. A grumpy cashier plies her trade, making me aware that, were she not grumpy one day, I would know something is terribly wrong. The efficient and pleasant table servers await me.

The clientele in front of me are inching forward toward the gesturer, who dispenses water and iced tea and bread as a final act of service before we are processed by the cashier.

His gesture. With one lanky arm and pointing finger, he is calling attention to the Christmas jar above the counter. It’s a tip jar. He is making sure in his own silent way that we customers at least have an opportunity to make his seasonal family a little happier. He hopes for gratuities but never asks, never disapproves when ignored.

What draws me to this ancient eatery? The food is always hot and copious. The decor is, well, not really decor—it’s more like somebody’s old, comfortable home. The booths and tables are worn and rickety but always clean and carefully bussed. 

I dig into my pocket for a few dollar bills, silently insert them into the jar as the recipient asks whether I prefer rolls or cornbread, water or tea, sweetened or unsweetened, lemoned or unlemoned. The transaction is completed. I have my loaded tray and cutlery and dinky little paper napkins. I survive the cashier. I embark upon a search for a welcoming table.

I ponder the unknown lives of diners and servers and cooks and bussers. I can’t fathom them all, but I can help myself remember the gesturing employee. He looks like a cross between Ichabod Crane and Don Quixote. Are his fears and dreams similar to those two iconic characters? What kind of child was he? How does he get home in the evening? What will he do with the paltry dollars and change he accumulates?

All is temporarily erased from imagination as I seek catsup for the meat loaf, salt and pepper for the beans, pepper sauce for the greens, butter for the corn muffin. I drown my present self in good feelings, read the juicy parts of the newspaper, leave another tip, this one for the chatty waitress.

And that’s the end of my Christmastime immersion in a place where good times past engrave themselves upon sweet memory. What remains is this little experience, for someday there may not be a Fife’s to nurture me. In times like these, there may never be another place to rub elbows and lives with such a diverse and easygoing crowd.

Attention must be paid, I tell myself. Attention must be paid

© Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

Listen to Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast: https://youtu.be/l0tydg24-IQ

or read the transcript below:

EMERGENCY ENTRANCE

Did did I ever tell you about my Bubble of Solitude? I’ll be brief: My Bubble of Solitude has an emergency entrance to which only I have the password. I use that entrance to escape the thousandfold distractions and contradictions of the world.

Even though I live in this world along with you and a few billion others, now and then I must pause, reflect, reassess and recharge in order to re-enter and resume dealing with life, love and the pursuit of purity.

I look upon my Bubble of Solitude as a journal, a diary, a captain’s log…a log that encourages me to toss rose petals here and there along the way, so that I can always find my way back when the world is too much with me.

On a wonderful day such as this, I have mixed feelings, contrarian thoughts. On the one hand, I am happy that my tunnel vision only allows the best of the day to present itself. On the other hand, I know that there are many lovely souls outside my Bubble of Solitude who could use a helping hand, lovely souls who long for acceptance and attention from you and me.

I send you greetings from the confines of my Bubble of Solitude. I hope you are bearing your life-assigned load as well as you can.

Please know this: There are rose petals strewn along the way for you, too. Rather than step on them, stop to examine and appreciate their intrinsic beauty. The only reason these rose petals are on your path is to offer up their wisdom, should you decide to open up to it. Wisdom that you can intuit from their presence, or wisdom that you can dismiss at will. It’s all on you. And me.

Even if you accidentally crush one of those petals, quickly pick it up and sniff the fragrance that was waiting for you all along. Even your mistake brought forth the wisdom of your senses, unarguable senses often ignored in the rush of a propulsive life.

Among the hundreds of scattered ideas that call out to me today, I guess these particular imparted words are enough for right now.

Go forth and find your own bubble. Find a way to reanimate within the bubble. It’s always there. You and I can live both inside and outside at will. Contents of the bubble await your presence, contents of daily life await outside. Don’t worry—you and I can handle both.

Give it a try

© Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

Hear Jim Reed’s Red Clay diary: https://youtu.be/3GXSL9oKZZE

or read his transcript below:

A story both true and actual, from many many many many years ago…

ARCHIVES OF THE CLEAN PLATE CLUB

 Popeye canned spinach is being served tonight, straight from can to stove pan, where slices of hard boiled eggs are added, along with white vinegar. Once steaming, the delicacy is transferred to chipped serving dish to family table, where it beckons to parents and kids.

For some reason, I am the only one of five children who endorses and gobbles up soggy warm spinach. Brothers and sisters will do anything possible to avoid having to face the prospect. Which is odd, because all five of us adore our cartoon hero, Popeye, who downs entire cans before each conquest.

Admire the superhero. Disdain how he got to be super. Losers all, I think smugly. I’m going to grow muscle and develop agility by imbibing a double dose of Popeye spinach.

Fortunately for my siblings, Mother’s dinner table is loaded with plenty of other delectable leftovers—pork and beans, cole slaw, hot cornbread, cold fried chicken, apple pie…enough to hide from parents the fact that no-one but yours truly ever touches the Popeye spinach.

I am also the kid who eats everything on the plate. That’s because it’s a sin to waste food or toss out uneaten food. WWII ended just a few years ago. Our parents sacrificed and scrimped and saved and worked hard to bring home the food we are enjoying. We are constantly reminded of this.

“Think of all the starving children in China,” Mother says whenever a plate is left uncleared. This is her way of letting us know that there are many children in the world who don’t get three squares and a snack each day. We should be grateful. And we are.

But that, too, never convinces  everybody that they should try spinach.

Children can starve, muscles can stay flabby, but some things just should not be eaten.

Still, whenever we go the the movies, the Popeye cartoons inspire us. Even if some of us don’t care for his culinary habits.

No matter, I love Popeye’s spinach. Even though I know that it’s more fun to imagine being strong and mighty, than it is to exert the effort required to become strong and mighty.

Maybe I’m just a eat-everything-on-your-plate hero. At least I’m thinking of the children of China, and not just myself.

Of course, later, as a sullen teenager, I will learn to retort, “Well, let’s just pack up the leftovers and mail them to China.” That line only works once, as you can imagine.

And another admonition that I wish I can whisper to my brother is, “Eat every carrot and pea on your plate.” We could giggle and feel so smug for at least a minute.

It’s those minutes that remain ever fresh and soggy in my mind to this day

© Jim Reed 2020 A.D.