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http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/thesingsongwomanundertherainbow.mp3

or read his story below:

THE SING-SONG WOMAN UNDER THE RAINBOW

The stilled afternoon breeze of Southside Birmingham is broken by a new sound.

Somewhere off in the distance you can hear something not quite like the other sounds of the street.

Not a car un-muffled, not a dog howling against the city’s loneliness, not a baby crying cribless.

It’s another sound, and it’s coming closer.

Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high.

There’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby…

It’s becoming clear now. It’s a flat, rounded-tone voice, and it’s very precise and methodical.

It’s the sing-song woman.

She walks by a time or two a day, singing a different song each time.

If you knew Suzie like I know Suzie

Oh, oh, oh what a gal…

The songs are all old. But they are the songs you don’t easily forget once you’ve heard them clearly. The phrases are simple and clever, the thoughts are easy to grasp, and the voices that used to record them were not drowned out by highly amplified instruments and heavy beats.

Singin’ in the rain, just singin’ in the rain.

What a glorious feeling I’m happy again…

At first when you hear the sing-song woman, you feel your day has been intruded upon. The song is loud, and you can’t ignore it and go on about your work. The sing-song woman knows most of the words correctly, and you even learn a few more by listening to her.

 That old black magic has me in its spell,

That old black magic that you weave so well…

There she is, now. Her head is down. She dresses plainly and walks slumped and straight ahead. But her voice sounds out huskily and methodically.

First you say you will and then you won’t,

And then you say you do and then you don’t,

You’re undecided now, so what are you gonna do?

I don’t know anything about the sing-song woman. She’s like many others who wander around Southside Birmingham going no place in particular. Like many of the others, she doesn’t look around. But she doesn’t bother anybody, either.

I’m laughing at clouds so dark up above,

The sun’s in my heart and I’m ready for love.

The heart inside this weathered woman is still ticking. The spirit rises above her body and sings on its own:

Let the stormy clouds chase everyone from the place,

Come on with the rain, I’ve a smile on my face.

Whatever life has meted out to this Southside denizen, there’s something inside her that won’t stay down. She’s a bag lady whose bag is a wonderful lyric.

I’ll walk down the lane with a happy refrain,

And singin’ just singin’ in the rain.

Is this woman’s entire life lived in an old tune written by long-forgotten composer?

Why am I smilin’ and why do I sing?

Why does December seem sunny as Spring?

Why do I get up each morning to start

Happy and het up with joy in my heart?

Why is each new task a trifle to do?

Because I am living a life full of you.

The lover to whom she sings the song is not with her on these daily treks. Perhaps her lover no longer lives. Perhaps her lover never was.

But it is obvious that to the sing-song woman, her lover is as real as her song in the afternoon breeze

© Jim Reed 2016 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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• Listen to Jim’s podcast:
• http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/curvatureoftheattentionspan.mp3
   or read his story below…
• 
  
• Curvature of the Attention Span

I am peering into the crowds of people surrounding me, somewhat lamenting the lost art of gazing into each others’ eyes.

In days far gone, people used to make momentary eye contact in passing, just long enough for a nod of recognition, a glimpse of friendliness, a symbol of trust and well-being.

Now, I am a stranger in a strange land.

No-one in sight is observing the world around them. They are all absorbed, focused, imbedded, part of the electronic devices they hold in their palms. Ignoring partners and friends, they are always Somewhere Else. Their bowed heads and bent spines pave the way for future professionals to minister unto them…chiropractors, orthopaedic surgeons, physical therapists, masseuses, masseurs, all will benefit from these aging technolusters who wonder how they became prematurely stooped, their thumbs arthritic, their distance vision awry, their observational powers limited by metal and plastic blinders.

Rooms full of people who are Somewhere Else. Stadiums of people who are Not Quite Here. Families filled with relatives all gazing navelward.

As I say, I am a stranger in a strange land, grateful for occasional moments when I meet other strangers who for some mysterious reason are not wedded to their palms, strangers who, like me, wish to engage and share and laugh with each other instead of laughing into a virtual unreality on a tiny screen.

Where do I find the happiness, the inspiration I seek, in a world of people who have gone away?

Well, it’s all there. All I have to do is what every artist, every writer, every poet has always done: Look around and examine everything that everybody else is ignoring.

The fact that pod people are self-absorbed leaves the rest of the world unobstructed for those of us who like to NOTICE. It’s actually kind of nice, being alone in a world full of people. I get all the time I need to peruse and browse and…NOTICE.

While much of the populace is busy text-shaming strangers, gossiping aimlessly with imaginary friends,  conducting snarky conversations about nothing of any particular importance, expressing opinions they’ve cut and pasted from others’ opinions…I get to have all the fun. 

Thanks, you behemoth media empire, thanks. You’ve freed up my time to observe more, write more, share more. You have provided me with my own space, space that is filled with actual people who are much larger than tiny screens and limited-character diatribes.

I get to see you as you are.

Do you ever see me as I am, I wonder

© Jim Reed 2016 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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

or read his story below:

Two Queues in the Villages of Birmingham

These two snapshots keep queuing up in my mind lately, so I have to own up to the lessons they are attempting to teach me. I do not yet know what they mean, but they are begging to be set free. Here they are:

First queue: I am standing in line behind two women at the thrift store check-out counter. I forget the old maxim that states the short line is always the slowest. Now I remember.

These two customers are standing next to shopping carts piled head-high with dozens of items, mostly clothing and shoes and household goods. The patient and unapologetic clerk takes her time methodically examining each item, entering a price in the register, calling for help from above when something is not priced, removing hangers, carefully rolling everything into bunches to be stuffed into white plastic bags, which the women move to the side in a protected heap.

This is taking a long time and my impatience is beginning to rise up. But on this particular day I remind myself that I can either enjoy this experience or make myself miserable. I opt to relax and observe. The petite women are very happy with their purchases and seem proud of their trove. After a while they look at the total tab, pull out rolls of cash and pay for everything in full. They leave the shop, laden with goodies and heading for a waiting van.

The clerk begins totaling my purchases while I ask her what all that clothing at one time is all about. “They are sending everything to their families in Mexico,” she said, for the first time smiling.” “Oh,” I say, feeling a bit ashamed of myself for being fidgety.

I leave the shop, wondering what those families will feel when they receive all these super gifts, what their expressions will be like as they sport their new old togs in a village far away from this particular Alabama village.

Second queue. I am again in line behind two women whose carts are brimming with clothing and household stuff and baby items.  The male clerk is slowly handling each item, removing hangers, making ad hoc bargains for those unmarked, focusing on doing a proper job. The women are chatting merrily. The first in line pays the clerk and remains at the counter while her companion begins handing things to the cashier.

Suddenly loud, funky and fun music emanates from her purse as she gropes for wallet and phone. I look over her bent head at the first customer and we spontaneously grin at each other, which inspires me to start faking some dance moves. She starts undulating, too, and her friend is now multi-tasking, taking in the dance, counting her money and answering her call. We can hear the male voice at the other end of the line.

“Where are you?” he barks.

“At the Piggly Wiggly,” she answers, causing her, the other customer, the clerk and me to crack up while stifling our guffaws.

“How much you spending?” he snarls.

“Oh, nothing,” she grins.

The conversation is over. The dance is done. The chuckles are mollified. The merchandise is paid for. The women leave.

The clerk and I watch them leave, each of us making up the sequel to a story we will never actually see.

I pay up, lift my bags, wish the cashier a great weekend. He returns the salutations.

I head from this village to the next village, ready for the next adventure

© Jim Reed 2016 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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Listen to Jim’s podcast:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/fallingupthestairsforfiftyyearsorso.mp3

or read his story below:

Falling Up the Stairs for Fifty Years or So

Just checking a list of the funniest things I’ve ever seen.

It’s the 1960′s, and I’m standing in the poolside doorway of my apartment in Alberta City, Alabama. To be exact, I live at Claymont Apartments just behind the bowling alley that is boldly called Leland Lanes. To the far right side of the obligatory chlorine-fragranced swimming pool I can see a small human figure swaying in the twilight shadows, silhouetted against the picture windows of each living unit.

I can make out who this human is, just from the way he holds himself. It’s Bill, the Tuscaloosa city planner who resides here. Normally, Bill is an engaging and lively conversationalist who takes his day job quite seriously. But on the weekends, and particularly on Saturday nights–this happens to be one of those Saturday nights–Bill pickles himself with a steady flow of beverages of the alcohol-content type. When Bill drinks, he remains sociable and smiling and harmless, but the lively discussions may wander about with less focus than usual.

Anyhow, this evening, Bill is weaving toward the stairs that lead to his second floor nest. His aim is true despite the meandering, and he raises his right foot to place it on the first step. He’s not holding onto the banister because his hands are protectively preoccupied with one bottle and one tumbler hugged to his chest.

Bill leans forward onto his right leg and raises his left leg, aiming to achieve either the same step or, optimistically, the second step. At this point, his leaning takes the appearance of toppling forward, face rapidly plunging toward the concrete surfaces. But then, a magical moment occurs. Instinctively cuddling both containers, Bill quickly raises his right foot in order to engage a third stair, thus saving his face but in the process failing to stabilize his downward fall. Rapidly struggling to remain erect, Bill lifts his left leg and manages to plant it on the fourth step just fast enough to again refrain from falling flat upon stairs and glassware.

Magically, Bill continues to fall forward at the same rate that  his legs effect the ascent and, like a slapstick comedian, he eventually arrives at the top of the flight, still wobbling, but vertical and unharmed.

I realize that time has stood still during this event. I haven’t breathed or averted my gaze. It happens so quickly that it takes me a while to absorb the physics of what I’ve just witnessed.

Bill wends his way toward his apartment or the next second-story party that he can find. I resume breathing and going about the business of hunkering down for the evening. Life goes on for another fifty years. Memories like this keep falling forward into my mind like a drunken friend, unable to self-destruct, unable to become forgettable.

I smile to myself and check the list to see what other funny reminiscences are hiding in stacks of notes and dictations.

There’s got to be a funny pony somewhere in there

© Jim Reed 2016 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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Listen to Jim’s podcast:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/youcantellthatithurtsher.mp3

or read his story below:

One More Glance at Childhood

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/butterflymummieslongagolove.mp3

or read his story below:

Butterfly Mummies, Long Ago Love Affairs and Four-Leaf Clovers

A lone customer sits huddled in the shadow of the old post office in the Museum of Fond Memories. She peers intensely at the open letter in her hands, a letter dated in pen and ink, “August, 1909.”

The carefully structured letter recounts, in several pages, a day in the life of the long-gone author, a narrative intended for the eyes and heart of the reader, who is simply named James. It’s a love note.

Earlier, the customer finds a postcard dated 1899, with “Wish you were here!” cheerfully signed by Alice, who is visiting St. Louis.  One small notebook reveals a four-leaf clover, pressed there in 1933. A butterfly wisps its way through the air and onto the floor. It is perfectly preserved inside a pamphlet on Manners, dated 1889. A 1952 telegram in the letter box announces with regret the death of a family member, an old dance card lists the signatures of men who once whirled the light fantastic with a seventeen-year-old girl, an envelope yields its contents–one silky bookmark with tassel, a tattered photograph from 1922 forever freezes in place the smiling faces of two young swim-suited moms at the beach with kids amok.

The customer, now lost in time, is in her third hour of trolling the generations. She is beginning to feel hunger, she knows there is much else to do outside this old bookstore, but she is reluctant to leave, now that these foundlings are begging to be adopted and nurtured.

She adds the love letter to her small affordable stack of paper ephemera, stands up to stretch, folds the metal chair and leans it in its place, then walks dreamily to the counter where the elderly proprietor awaits.

Her smile is sad and jubilant. “I love these things. I wish I could buy them all!”

The shopkeeper glows. “I’m so glad you appreciate these lives, and I’m even more glad that you plan to adopt them and keep them safe”

It is an idiosyncrasy of the owner that he views the contents of his shop as orphans awaiting the protection of adoptive parents. He is grateful that at least this one customer “gets” it.

The woman pays for her selections and clutches package and purse to her chest as she slowly heads for the front door. As she moves, she tenderly touches and examines other old memories, a frayed book, a newspaper clipping, an ancient valentine…and eventually exits the shop.

The proprietor walks over to the metal post office boxes, straightens up their corner a bit, moves a couple of potential obstructions, and thus prepares the area for a new customer.

He wonders what the next dreamer will be like

© Jim Reed 2016 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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 Listen to Jim’s podcast:

 http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/listentothemockingbirds.mp3

or read his story below:

Listen to the Mockingbirds Among Us

When the Mockingbird passed this week, Atticus Finch and a host of other heroes, fictitious and actual, lined up to remind me of their importance in my life. Here are some thoughts about a few influential characters to whom attention must be paid:

My grandfather bought a house in the tiny coal mining town West Blocton, Alabama, around the turn of the century. On Easter Sunday in the year 1909, my father, Tommy, was born in that house. Since there were seven or so brothers and sisters ahead of Tommy, my grandfather Jim placed the infant in an Easter basket and announced to his brood that the Easter Bunny had delivered this pink, noisy package.

Back then, kids believed that sort of thing.

Now, to know my father, you’d have to know the people he admired, since men in his generation weren’t much for sitting around telling you about themselves. No, you just had to look around and pay attention to the men whose lives they emulated.

In my father’s case, I can remember who some of his heroes, both literary and real, were:

Sergeant Alvin York, who never accepted a dime in trade for the exemplary heroism he’d shown for his country in World War I.

Preacher Josiah Dozier Grey and Uncle Famous Prill, the heroes of Joe David Brown’s Birmingham novel/movie, Stars in My Crown, men who never wavered from belief in family and neighbors and principles. They were forerunners of Atticus Finch and other strong Southern heroes of fact and fancy.

Harry Truman, who dispensed with nonsense and tried to do the right thing, even when it was not popular. He was in a long line of no-nonsense leaders, such as John L. Lewis and Eric Hoffer, people who thought for themselves and never followed a posse or a trend.

Jesus Christ, who, like my father, was a carpenter, and a principled man.

And so on.

Now, it’s important to understand this one thing about my father—to look at him, to be around him, you’d never know he was a hero. He was a working-class, blue-collar, unassuming person you’d probably not notice on the street, unless you noted that he limped from an old coal mining injury received when he tried to save another man’s life. It was his very invisibility that made him a true hero, because he did the kind of thing that nobody gets credit for: he loved unconditionally and without reward. That’s right. He was a practitioner of unconditional love for family, the kind of love that seeks no return, no attention. You would have embarrassed Tommy Reed if you had tried to thank him for his acts of kindness, because you were not supposed to notice.He gave money in secret to relatives in need. He grimaced and bore silently the abuse of those who forgot to appreciate or thank him. And he never announced his good deeds. You just had to catch him now and then in an act of kindness.

His heroes were all men who didn’t need adulation.

What my father needed was a hard day’s work at an honest job, a few moments of privacy after a good meal, time to read a book or watch television with a child or grandchild on his lap, and an occasional hug from his wife, my mother.

You could do worse than have a father like Preacher Grey and Joel McCrea, Uncle Famous and Juano Hernandez, Gregory Peck and Atticus Finch, Eric Hoffer, John L. Lewis, Harry Truman, Sergeant York and Gary Cooper, and Jesus.

Do they make ‘em like that any more? You bet they do, but you won’t know about it for a while, because they don’t have press agents. What they do have is the appreciation that takes years to grow and make itself known, the appreciation we come to have after we, too, have been called upon to commit an occasional act of unrewarded kindness.

Take another look at your heroes, both silent and palpable. Listen to what they have to say through actions and words.

They are to be cherished

© Jim Reed 2016 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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Listen to Jim’s podcast:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/hellowyoungghostdancers.mp3

or read his story below:

Hello Young Ghost Dancers Wherever You Are

The Downtown city ghost dancers come alive only when there are wind-tunnel breezes travelling southwest to northeast on Third Avenue North.

Suddenly, each empty curbside trash container becomes an opaque-white jack-in-the-box, the plastic bags inflate, the rushing air pummels them about. They dance in place, these celebratory spirits, since they are securely anchored.

As I drive the length of Third Avenue, the Oscar Peterson jazz inside my car keeps time with the dervishes. Oscar and the ghosts make merry together, just for my personal entertainment.

Once I park next to the bookshop, I reluctantly leave the party and open the doors to customers, booklovers, collectors, tourists, readers, explorers.

Today, a young man nervously proposes to his girlfriend in the very corner of the shop where they once had their first date–a corner where people come to read old love letters and diaries written by lovers long gone. Pre-arranged photographers come out of hiding and record the event among titters and giggles and broad smiles and suppressed tears. The visitors leave happy. Perhaps they will return on their first anniversary.

I wonder whether the dancing street ghosts will throw rice.

Later, another couple arrives, followed by a photographer. This particular pair is engaged to be married but want pictures taken throughout the store, a tribute to their enthrallment with things old, borrowed, multi-hued, a tribute to the special aura and fragrance exuded by books and wonderful old collectibles.

Romance is in the air.

It all seems so logical. My 36-year-old shop, filled to the brim with fond memories, is being appreciated for a few minutes.

Attention is being paid.

It almost makes me feel as if the place really matters.

Long after the Museum of Fond Memories fades from the street scene, celebrating ghosts will still respond to well-placed breezes. Young lovers will still find hope in obscure places. Nostalgia buffs will continue to honor the past. Somebody somewhere will still be hoarding a real book or two and reading quietly under a comforter late at night when nobody else is paying attention.

And love notes will remain hidden for future explorers to discover

© Jim Reed 2016 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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Listen to Jim’s podcast: 

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/knowledgeacquiredonadontneedtoknowbasis.mp3

or read his story below:

Knowledge Acquired On a Don’t-Need-to-Know Basis

“Well, that’s just vulgar.”

“Don’t be vulgar.”

“They are vulgar people.”

I lie late at night on the top bunk in my childhood room many moons ago and listen to The Voices. Staring at the hovering ceiling and awaiting sweet sleep, I try to sort out what The Voices are telling me.

The word “vulgar” keeps popping up and forcing me to work past it. It is a word my mother uses frequently in describing uncouth behavior or disreputable people or scatological language.

It is an interesting word because it is alive with uncomfortable meaning, abrasive undertone.

Vulgar.

Don’t ever hear that word in my present grownup world. Wonder why?

“Vulgar” is Mother’s way of avoiding the use of what she calls “curse words,” the words she feels are useless and way too easy to employ. When I run out of creative vocabulary, I tend to resort to short-cut words, usually terse and profane. I learn from her that in a stressful or confrontational situation it is important to stop, count to ten, then carefully and thoughtfully speak. The few times I have been able to employ this advice, it actually works.

Unfortunately, to this day, my mouth generally moves more spontaneously than my brain…so Mom’s advice remains affixed to a wall in a red metal box with small window and sign that reads, “In case of vulgar usage, break glass and count to ten.”

Or something like that.

I don’t like being vulgar, and I don’t like it when vulgarity abounds in my childhood world as well as today’s world.  So, vulgar is my constant filter. Vulgar serves as a protective helmet that I wear in order to fend off the vulgarians.

And it helps me get smugly through the day, knowing that vulgar people are so ignorant they can’t even count to ten

© Jim Reed 2016 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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Listen to Jim’s podcast:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/enoughisenoughandtoomuchisplenty.mp3

or read his story:

Enough is Enough and Too Much is Plenty

At some time in my encroaching dotage, I have this mini-epiphany.

I call this mini-epiphany The Time of Unleashing. That’s when I begin tossing aside the things I can in no way control or affect or steer, the things that waste my time and energy.

On a good day, this unleashing frees me to focus on the really important moments of life. I look around at the obvious, observe the things that are so present they become invisible if attention is not paid.

This is a good moment. I’m at the museum restaurant having a most pleasurable brunch and conversation with my wife. I am taking in Liz and everything surrounding us.

What I see comprises my entire world at this one moment.

At a nearby table, an elderly wheelchaired diner hovers over his plate and slowly arranges his food, all the while suppressing the coughing spell that sets his  eyeglasses askew. He is focused on getting edibles from fork to mouth, all on his own.  His caretaker sits patiently across from him, vacuously or stoically or resignedly or disdainfully—it’s hard to tell which. If you also take shrooms for pain relief or to enhance your mood, you may use this microdosing guide.

I head for the drink table and scan the selections. A large man ahead of me is sampling the drinks to decide which is right for him. I say, “Is the iced tea any good?” He grumps, “Not sweet enough,” and heads for the lemony water.

Back at the table with Liz, I watch the elderly wheelchaired diner carefully transfer, one at a time, several ice cubes from a half-full glass to a nearly-full glass. I know what he’s doing—we southerners like our cold drinks filled with ice before fluid is added. Out-of-region servers don’t know this.

Musicians a few feet away are playing an old jazz piece called “Killer Joe,” then transition into tunes by Thelonious Monk and Miles Davis. I just can’t wipe the smile off my face, since these are the songs I played on the air some fifty-plus years ago when working as a radio DJ. The memory is vivid and visceral, adding  extra spice and sweetness to the meal.

We chat with our cheerful server and are pleased to find that she loves her job. I have a special regard for job-lovers, since they seem rare and scattered. Later, in the museum gift shop, we have long and energetic conversations with the volunteers who run the place. They, too, have that enthusiasm we love to see in craftspeople and artists.

As we meander through the galleries, having broken our fast and paid the tab, we talk about anything and everything, with no agenda beyond enjoying the moment and each other and ourselves.

I am living within my epiphany and focusing all my energy away from the challenges, problems, terrors and accidents that the outer banks of my life will pour upon me when my guard is down.

Right now, this minute, is life. It is quite enough

© Jim Reed 2016 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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