Hear Jim’s Red Clay Diary podcast: https://youtu.be/5amkVQU19zc

or read his transcript below:

MOTHERS-A-BILLION

It is impossible for me not to think about mothers every now and then.

My mother jump-started me and prepared me for leaving the nest and flying away to life and love and all the sadnesses and joys that followed. I still follow the flight path she structured.

It is impossible not to think about all the other mothers of the world, past, present, future.

Every kind of mother floats around in fond memory.

Motherless mothers

Mothers who lose their children

Mothers whose children have been taken from them

Mothers of mothers

Absentee mothers

Mysterious mothers

Mothers who are always there

Stepmothers

Foster mothers

Adoptive mothers

Adopted mothers-to-be

Mothers in name only

Clueless mothers

As-you-wish mothers

Clumsy mothers

Mothers we wish we had known better

Mothers we know only too well

Highfalutin’ mothers

Humble mothers

Welfare mothers

Imprisoned mothers

Hugging mothers

Distant and cool mothers

Dream mothers

Dreamy mothers

Mothers we would give anything to see again

Creative mothers

Mothers who do what they can do, just for us

Brilliant mothers

Caretaker mothers

Sacrificing mothers

Storybook mothers

Protective mothers

Hovering mothers

Biological mothers

Test-tube mothers

Guardian mothers

Only-in-their-imagination mothers

Good-pal mothers

Uplifting mothers

Grandmothers

Great grandmothers

Grand mothers

Foster mothers

Surrogate mothers

Stand-in mothers

Well-meaning mothers

Wanna-be mothers

To-be mothers

Brand-new mothers

Long-gone mothers

Faraway mothers

Gentle mothers

Good example mothers

Gay mothers

Straight mothers

Not-quite-sure mothers

Trans mothers

Black mothers

Brown mothers

Pale pink mothers

Mothers of all colors and stripes

Pasty complexioned mothers

Mothers we wish we had

Mothers we wish we had back

Men who fill in as mothers

Mothers on bail

Disenfranchised mothers

Hospitalized mothers

Mothers in nursing homes

Mothers who take the time

 In a way, I love them all, these mothers. Mainly because we never appreciate them enough. Mainly because they never feel they give enough.

I just want these mothers to know that I thought about them for a few special moments, that I wish them well for all they’ve done or hope to do for us, their babies old and young

© Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

Hear Jim’s Red Clay Diary podcast on youtube: https://youtu.be/5f-cP0TO33Y

or read his transcript below:

ACTING KIND, PRETENDING TO BE KIND, MAKES ME KIND

Time for a journey to the past for a couple of minutes. Time to ruminate about where I have been and what motivates me to keep on keeping on, to this day.

I’m compliantly sitting on a hard wooden chair in grammar school, looking as straight toward the ceiling as I can, mouth agape, while a visiting dentist hovers over me and draws near.

This is the first time a doctor has looked at my teeth. His eye-glassed face comes close to mine, he pokes me with sharp metal. His breath underwhelms me with the stale odor of tobacco. His grimaced-revealed teeth are yellow and crooked. And is that the smell of rubbing alcohol or drinking alcohol?

No wonder I hesitate going to the dentist to this day, even though I have the best practitioner/diagnostician you can possibly hope for, name of Patrick Odum.

But this little glimpse of childhood is about the 1940s, so I am still back there in spirit.

I comply with this terrifying examination because I know that Sadie will comfort me should I panic.

Like many second-graders in the 1940s post WWII era, I am warmly tutored by a disciplined and kindly teacher whose face and name remain with me to this very moment. Sadie Logan ignited my love of books and ideas, and I owe so much to her.

Sadie made me feel that she was paying particular attention solely to me each time I required respite or guidance.

I’m still inspired by Sadie’s concern, compassion, scholarship, her unwavering attention to me as an introverted and directionless post-war child.

Because of people like Sadie, I became who I am today, an introverted and directionless post-war child who finds ways to cope and persevere and achieve…ways to hide all signs of darkness and simply act my way into thinking past the gremlins.

Ways to act myself into new and better and more worthwhile endeavors.

The dental moment might have traumatized me, but with Sadie Logan in charge, I knew that somehow I could get through any situation safely. Second grade was a blessing.

I am jolly and alert and stimulated and loving because I learned from Sadie that what you do all day every day is how you will be remembered, how I am regarded today

Hear Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast: https://youtu.be/yXKU8ka3mRs

or read the transcript below:

A SOGGY DAY IN ANY TOWN

“Flash flood warning for parts of…”

A robotic voice, its syllables clear but raggedly paced and unemphasized, interrupts life in this Deep South village for a few seconds. The voice is reporting the fact that rain is a-coming.

Lightning and its rapidly tag along thunder seek my attention.

Funny how fright and fear constantly shift their subjects. One day I’m afraid of the pandemic, another day I worry about tornadoes, next moment I might be obsessing over where my meals will come from in a few weeks—or my toilet paper.

And, with enough idle time on my hands, I even wonder: just where is my waist? It used to be Coke-bottled-defined. I knew where to tighten my belt. As I morph into someone shaped like the Pillsbury dough boy, I lose my waist. Oh, well, not to worry. There will be something else to fret over any minute now.

In order to battle the forces of worry and concern, to distract myself, to make up a cheery life in order to occlude the dreary feary life, I stay busy. 

I am on my way to the bookstore to spend the day cataloging and arranging, preparing for the post-apocalyptic world we hope will save and savor us.

The silence of barren streets is somewhat comforting. It tells me everybody’s in this together. It allows me to see the town itself, unencumbered by other vehicles, other denizens. For a moment there seems to be no future.

But the future always hovers, reminding me that my world is not a world worth having without the presence of other people.

And, sure enough, I pass by the father of the owner of Pop’s Deli outside his daughter’s diner, smiling and waving a box of door-to-door meals he’s about to deliver. I long for the soon-to-be day when I can sit within and see Heather’s sweet face as she chats and cooks and produces a tasty omelet while I read my morning paper and scan newsprint for signs of hope.

I pass by a few stragglers, roll down the window and wish them a good morning, make them smile despite the hard times. And here we all go forward, one asphalt stripe after another, one step prior to the next step.

Each day I park in the nearby deck, punch the down button with my elbow, and gaze out a huge window, waiting for the elevator to awaken. The deserted hollowed-out skyscraper across the street sports many broken windows and seems bereft of life at first glance.

But after months of periodically staring with nothing better to do, I notice that this lifeless structure is perhaps not yet dead and gone.

From one high-up gap-toothed window, a makeshift shade flaps in the breeze. Some days it is not there, other times it is crooked but present. This means that someone is occupying upper-story space. Someone is residing under circumstances I can only imagine.

Now and then, when fright and fear encroach, when my guard is down, I think about this ghastly ghostly building and what might be going on out of sight of passersby, out of sight of the absentee owners of this property. I wonder whether I’m the only person who knows that, high up, a life or lives may be going on.

And when fright and fear gain the upper hand, I wonder whether I’ll someday be looking for space like this to hide from the horrors.

But never mind. I have books to cherish and customer promises to keep. And the wonderful ability to brush aside all this depressive meandering in order to nurture hope and family.

There is no other journey worth considering

© Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

WEBSITE

Catch Jim’s Red Clay Diary podcast: https://youtu.be/Aki0_01dqFU

or read his transcript below:

NO LOITERING VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED

This sign at the post office is fastened securely to a brick-facade column. As I park and prepare to tote my bag of books-to-be-mailed, I take another look.

NO LOITERING VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED

Does this mean that it’s ok to be a loitering violator? That maybe a fast-moving, aggressive violator is the kind authorities would prefer to pursue?

I guess punctuation would help. Instead of all-cap letters of equal font, there are other ways to more clearly express whatever it is the sign-maker is trying to get across.

What about

NO LOITERING! VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED!

We’ve seen this sign so many times that it is invisible to all but natural-born editors and proofers like yours truly.

Besides, sitting on the curb right under the sign is a disheveled man who is soliciting money from all passersby. The city’s ordinance against panhandling is ignored, as is the LOITERING sign.

I’m making no judgments here. It’s acceptable by me for the man to solicit. It’s also quite in the scheme of things for the city’s sign shop to produce metallic embossed signage that no-one notices.

It just seems like busy work—signmaking for no purpose, and panhandling rules that are unenforced.

The ten-year-old inside me thinks it would be fun to produce and install official-looking signs, just to see how long it would take for “officials” to spot and remove them.

What about signs like

PROSECUTORS WILL BE VIOLATED

or

VIOLATORS WILL BE PERSECUTED

or

LOITERERS WILL BE LATTE’D

or

PROSECUTORS MUST NOT LOITER

I agree that this little whimsical exercise of mine is somewhat time-wasting, but there are much worse things I could be doing than giving my imagination a workout, in these times of what-do-I-do-next-that-would-be-productive-or-at-least-fun

© Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

WEBSITE

Hear Jim Reed’s new edition of Red Clay diary: https://youtu.be/CB5lUy3UaKQ

or read his transcript below:

I round the corner of the granite building, walking briskly on the way to work.

At the corner, Reverend Chris the security guard stands solid as a rock. He’s the overseer for the attorneys who occupy the structure next door to my shop.

Today, Chris is not the happy cheerer-upper I’m accustomed to. Today, he is keeping his solitary distance. He is bemasked and gloved, but he is still there to protect this corner of a city block. He is protecting himself from me. He is protecting me from himself. Like the Lone Rearranger, he is comforting.

Chris’ mask seems to mute him, as if his words would bounce back to him, unheard.

I wave and smile and attempt to delegate cheer to him.

That’s the way things are these days on the tumbleweed streets of the viral town.

LOOKING FOR COMFORT AND COMPASSION, I DIG THROUGH THE RED CLAY DIARY AND FIND JOY IN THIS ENTRY…I hope you do, too:

WHERE SILENCE REIGNS, ALL IS CALM AND BRIGHT

Hear Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast: https://redclaydiary.com/mp3/allthatjazz.mp3

or read his transcript below:

The time of corona allows me a moment to dig deep into

old Red Clay Diary entries. Time to recall days and moments so beautiful.

Too beautiful to store away and forget.

So, here’s a fond memory from eons ago when Deep South

villagers clustered for an hour of a Sunday afternoon to hear sweet music.

ALL THAT JAZZ

     Outside the large old windows of the large old church, the bright sunshine tries hard to get through the glass and closer to the sounds of jazz, sounds that gently stroke the  ceiling the floor the pews the people and the sunbeams themselves with variations on a theme of love thy everything, love thy everyone.

The pews get harder the longer we sit but the music gets lovelier and the lazy afternoon will not loosen its hold on us.

In the pew behind us an infant snores peacefully against its mother’s breast. In front of us a little girl is so caught up in the music that her body vibrates with every chord. She plays among the sunbeams and the old dust and the almost visible musical notes. She is inside the music just as surely as the baby is inside his dreams, inside his mother’s arms.

We sit in this hard pew between this infant and this child and feel the music so intimately that it seems to be pulling our bliss into one organic joy, even though we sit still and polite and quiet.

Jazz variations on the lightness of being.

And the thing is, this baby and this little girl cannot decipher the meaning of all this joy.

And you know it really doesn’t matter, because their purity is so resounding in the Sunday afternoon dust

© Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

WEBSITE

Catch Jim’s latest Red Clay Diary podcast:

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vuLLy5ZkWgU&feature=youtu.be

or read the transcript below:

USING SIGNAGE LANGUAGE TO COMMUNICATE WITH WALMARTIANS

Let’s say for just a moment that I am a being not of this planet.

Let’s further suppose that I am just this moment beaming down and looking around.

I cruise through the aisles of a huge facility that dispenses food and all manner of objects Earthlings seem to require.

The posted signs are not easy to understand.

PLEASE DO NOT ALLOW CHILDREN TO PLAY WITH THE TOYS

In my research prior to descending to Planet Three, I am led to believe that toys are manufactured for the sole purpose of being played with by children. Is this some kind of reverse-psychology attempt at human humor? Are children no longer allowed to play with toys?

I must make note of this for later study.

On one of the enormous electronic image screens scattered about this emporium, I view what is generally referred to as News.

One oft-repeated phrase in reportage of interspecies violence is this:

THE GUNMAN WAS A LONER WHO LIVED WITH HIS MOTHER.

Another confusing characteristic of sapiens. It is my understanding that children are raised from birth in close proximity to at least one parent or guardian. Does that headline infer that there is something unacceptable and damning about a grown child residing with a parent?

My time is up for this particular visit. I’ll return another day to make more notes.

Goodbye, Earthies. I mean you no harm.

MEANWHILE, BACK TO THE REALITY OF EVERYDAY DEEP SOUTH LIFE:

Love in the time of Corona is quite challenging at the bookstore.

Distance between visitors and staff is monitored, surfaces are constantly cleansed. But otherwise, all is calm, all is bright.

Customers seek bliss among the shelves and displays, ask questions about price and availability and content, and generally enjoy themselves.

A first-time visitor to the shop announces his entrance with a big juicy hand-covered sneeze. He sees my expression, which must be one of confusion. I need my shoppers, but I need them to enter—then return—both healthy and non-contagious. I don’t say anything. He laughs, says, “I don’t have Corona!”

I reach for the Purell.

His partner rubs her eyes vigorously, then explores the shop.

At a safe distance, I lead them to sections of the stacks that they prefer. I warmly explain the layout. I hope that I am exuding friendliness, politeness, while remaining careful and attentive.

I disinfect before, after and during customer visits.

Since we are all encouraged to keep a safe physical distance from one another, I fill those empty spaces with calming music and a bit of patter.

Today, I am listening to Mozart arias by Cecilia Bartoli, blue tunes by Miles Davis, new tunes by Ahmad Jamal, longing and love by the Sons of the Pioneers, clever lyrics by Anthony Newley, robust stories by Big Joe Williams and Count Basie, jolly instrumentals via Gershwin piano rolls. And so on and so forth.

I am still planted on this planet. I still have to find ways to recall and refresh my humanity, your humanity.

Maintaining the bookstore at the center of the universe is my way. I’m here should you need me. I’m here even when you don’t need me.

The books will endure, as will Earthlings, as will you

© Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

WEBSITE

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

or read the transcript below:

BEYOND THE GROVE OF THE DOLLS

 Within the dusty attic of my mind reside Deep South Gothic memories that occasionally arise and remind me that regardless of how many times The Stories tell themselves to you, they are never quite finished. For every story told, there is always The Next Day, and what happened The Next Day.

Here’s a true story that will never be completed. Fortunately, the human imagination, each human imagination touched by this story, will unwillingly carry forth the tale and conjure up possible Next Day scenarios. That’s part of the fun of storytelling.

Here’s a true and actual tale hidden in my Red Clay Diary many years ago. It reappears in my dusty mind every decade or so.

ONCE UPON A TIME OR TWO… 

 Downtown Birmingham is the Tether.

You can enjoy being Downtown or you can enjoy returning to Downtown. Just take a trip 50 miles thataway or 50 miles the other way, then return to the City. This is about the time I went thataway…and was so glad to return safely—though altered.

The life-size mannequins inside the old tin shed are all tangled together in a silent and stifled orgy of lacquered intimacy.

There are mannequins fully dressed and carefully made up and there are mannequins old and weathered and strangely still youthful.

There are glowy-eyed mannequins staring into whatever comes before them but never changing the direction of the stare, prisoners frozen and sentenced to observe only that which presents itself to their direct gazes and steely peripheral visions.

There are male mannequins with sculpted hair and female mannequins with flared nostrils and delicate hands, there are mannequin heads and arms and legs and feet and torsos both dancing and as still as stones at rest in the countryside heat. And there are mannequins swinging from rafters and peeking from large pails, and next door there is another metal-roofed building with yet more mannequins and their neighbors.

The little town of Shady Grove, Alabama has no idea that these mannequins and body parts are living, never alive, in its midst. And no-one knows, either, that surrounding these mannequins are big reels of full-length movies and newsreels and ”shorts” and previews (trailers) and documentaries and cartoons, all in their original canisters, all in their original formats, 35-millimeter, 16-millimeter, 8-millimeter, and photographic slides and transparencies, and, should you yearn to see one of these features, there are dozens and dozens of movie projectors and screens from every era—silent-movie hand-cranked projectors before the time of universal electricity, wide-screen movies before the time of TV-eating-up-the-world, military projectors designed to withstand V-2 or Scud Missile attacks, and projectors that were once handled by teenagers in high school science classes, and projectors that once had been operated in real movie theatres by real union-member projectionists.

The man who has coveted, stored, squirreled away and gathered all this mass of inert motion picture paraphernalia and this city of mannequins has also taken care to hoard hundreds of belts, projector bulbs, gears and sprocket-repairers, film editors and cutters and splicers and tapers, just in case the end of all other repair sources occurs during his lifetime.

And now, he is showing me his lifetime stash—which also includes a live nightmarish dog who barks perpetually day and night, never stopping, each bark accompanied by a three-foot leap into the air in a vain attempt to escape his fenced confines and energize all those mannequins—a truly possessed dog whose owners haven’t a clue.

Next to the sheds and shacks in the buggy country air are ten-foot-high stacks of very old grey and weathered mahogany boards that their owner has gathered from companies no longer needing them, and there is an old automobile splayed open to the world with wires running from under its hood into goodness knows what.

Inside his home, the man complains about the paper-thin ceilings that someone has spray-covered and which are now falling in from boredom and weariness, and his wife hides somewhere behind all his collectible mania, never presenting herself—a Gothic world that really exists if you go a few miles outside where you live now. A world not to be made fun of, since our world is just as offbeat and inaccessible to them as theirs is to us.

Maybe I’ll go back and visit this village of non-living comrades who in a way seem more alive than you and I and who certainly get along with each other better than you and I and who unlike you and I are totally accepting of their keepers—the insane leaping dog and the movie-mahogany-mannequin collector who is beginning to worry about what will happen to all his adoptees when he has become as lifeless-yet-attentive as they

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

or read his transcript:

THE RISE OF THE DRINK MACHINES AND OTHER DISREGARDABLES

Regarding the disregarded is my job as a writer, my task as a teller of stories.

It’s easy to notice the obvious. There are plenty of other folks whose job that is.

But paying attention to the invisible, looking between the cracks, examining the interstices, walking backward in a forward-motion crowd, even describing things so obvious that they’ve become obscure…that’s my job.

1. The looming electronic soft-drink machine flashes its message: EXACT CHANGE ONLY. Only, what the exact change should be is not posted, leaving the caffeine addict no choice but to pour money in until something—or nothing—happens.

2.  The parking meter asks for quarters, but nothing happens when a quarter is inserted, leaving the visitor no choice but to pour more quarters in, just in case this magically fixes the problem.

3.  The flashing yellow light at a busy intersection totally confounds most motorists. Does yellow mean stop, does it mean speed up, does it act as a four-way stop, does the other driver know the same set of rules that you know? Most of us simply look both ways, make a wish and take the Acceleration of Faith, hoping that irresistible objects don’t suddenly meet and mess with the laws of physics. Either way, the light never stops communicating its uncommunicative message: YELLOWFLASH YELLOWFLASH YELLOWFLASH

4.  The elevator light doesn’t come on when you punch it, leaving you no choice but to punch it again and again, just in case it didn’t get the message the first time. Then, another pedestrian arrives and starts punching, too. The elevator disregards us all and operates exactly as it is designed to. It’s the elevator’s world. We just live in it. And obey.

5.  The fast-food clerk has done her job so many times, she no longer feels the need to speak. Her economy of movement dictates that she simply sit there staring at me, slightly raising an eyebrow as if to say, “Come on, speak up. I don’t have all day.” I am amused and decide to play the game. I stare silently at her and raise an eyebrow, too. She doesn’t respond. Finally, I say, “Welcome to FastFoodHeaven, may I take your order, please?” She snaps out of her contempt, acts confused, then decides to take my order. Afterward she returns to her stupor. She never knows what just happened.

6.  The city employees I most admire are the trash and garbage collectors. They do their jobs like clockwork, exposing themselves to every manner of germ and fragrance and dangerous object, come rain, drought, storm or darkness. They cannot possibly be paid enough, and certainly should receive higher salaries than city leaders…maybe about as much as surgeons. The only thing I have to do as a citizen is mind their rules, which are sometimes obscure. I obey because I don’t want them to fail to pick up my detritus.

Regarding the disregardable is a gift and a curse. Disregarding the all-too-obvious is next best. Forgetting the unforgettable, always remembering the forgettable…that’s what we storytellers do. I hope we have your sympathy…even if we don’t, we still have one shared secret that keeps us going:

This kind of life is sooo entertaining.

Get yourself a pencil and you can live it, too

©  by Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

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