Listen to Jim’s 4-minute audio podcast: https://youtu.be/iu6MNvxvxSg

or read on…

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Life, actually…

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THE BIRMINGHAM TO TUSCALOOSA BREEZEWAY DOGTROT

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Children of the Down South Soil, this is a special report from one Village Elder.

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See whether you can immerse yourself in these flashes of long-ago joys. See whether you will be inspired to file away and cherish your own lifetime extension of happy treasures.

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Everything I say is true and actual.

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Driving west from Birmingham, I pass by a ramshackle breezeway home where one wizened whittler quietly shapes his lap sculpture on porch steps, pausing only a moment to look at me and wave a smile before I disappear into the red bug ladybug mist. 

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Further on, the West Blocton exit illuminates vivid times where deep inside I still play on Rose Lane, birthplace of my father. The family house is gone now, but part of me is still running around the backyard, next in line to use the outhouse.

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Tuscaloosa approaches, and there I am suddenly standing barefoot on clay, recalling times when kinfolk still lived in a breezeway dogtrot house on the North River. I can still taste crystal water dipped from the front yard well, feel its coolness, experience the nurturing of people genetically connected to me.

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Good times and fond memories during my time here on Planet Three bounce all over the place.

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On the way to T Town, there is the Brookwood exit, where the hope and play of childhood remembers me as a tad adventuring into the woods of Peterson. Nearby homes of grandparents and cousins are my tether, guaranteeing I won’t be lost for long during tiny explorations.

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The Birmingham to Tuscaloosa Breezeway Dogtrot memory machine is merrily out of control.

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Somewhere hereabouts is Hurricane Creek, where water moccasins and giggly girlfriends play side by side during weekend picnics. Not too far away is Lock 13, a marvel of technology and noise and clanking waterlogged metals.

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All these places intermingle in my childhood playground, and it’s good to call on them when I need to escape the computerized and politicized world for a bit.

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Sometimes I recall them, sometimes they recall me right back.

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If you can imagine my extensive and erratic Alabama lifespan as a plot of land, you could measure it from Cuba on the Mississippi border to western Jefferson County, from north Birmingham and Northport to Montevallo just south of here.

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My forays outside this region are instructive, but there is never any place anything like sweet home Down South Alabama.

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And home is where I still dip into the past to dredge up washboard roads, fossils jutting from chalky riverbanks, sputtering swimmers and treaders at play, rolled-down windows, stick shift roadsters, long rope swings, barbed wire fences, pines and scraggly bushes, teetering tree houses, corrugated tin roofs, makeshift bows and arrows, wandering hobos, haunting train whistles, arrowheads here and there, infinitely observable ant beds, penny candy, sparklers and fireflies in the dusk, mysterious attics and damp basements, whispery gossip and tall tales, pet frogs, yodeling playmates, bubblegum cards, and always and forever the homebase, the center of the known universe, my family, my bunk bed, my endless dreams at the end of hard play days.

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You children of the Down South soil, cherish what time you have, pay attention to the tales of elders, protect the young’uns, and hold fast to your fond memories. They might come in handy here and there, now and then

© 2025 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s two-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/qlOa5IQ_aGM

or read the transcript below…

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Life, actually…

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THE TWIRLING DRESS

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She designed it from sweet memory.

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Then she made it just for herself.

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A dress well-conceived and well executed.

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A dress that existed for celebrations to come.

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It was pretty when she made it so long ago.

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It was bright and fresh and new.

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It smelled so good.

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It felt like an elegant second skin.

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It reminded her of a good life on a good day on a one-day-only good planet.

It made her want to dance.

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It made her want to twirl.

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It made her want to remain within that moment.

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It made her wish that moment would be endless and forever accessible.

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She was fine and bright and filled with the goodness that forms from sacrifice and good will.

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She had done her share of nurturing and comforting those around her.

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The newly formed dress gave her permission to pamper herself for a change.

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A lovely creation a lovely creature a lovely chance to toss away past regrets and future fears.

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A lovely chance to soar free and easy for a few moments, to create special memories that could never be taken from her.

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The twirling is done now, the times have shifted.

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But the fine painting she created now hangs high in her room. Her painting of that wonderful dress suspends the moment and makes it so easy for her to occasionally float into the canvas and once more pilot the dress, don the dress, feel the dress, levitate those past moments so dear to her

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 © 2025 A.D. by Jim Reed

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

https://youtu.be/lRTZ9p37RpI

Life, actually…

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GOOD FATHER DAYS

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Today is Good Father Day. Tomorrow is Good Father Day. Every day is Good Father Day.

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Good fathers come in many forms and packages.

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Here’s my toast to:

Catch Jim’s 3-minute podcast on youtube: https://youtu.be/_pgnmerjXbI

or read the transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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TIME TO LAUGH, TIME TO PONDER

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I am about to drop a dozen or so of my latest brain droppings upon you. You may now proceed to pay attention, or you may simply click to something else until I am finished.

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These are spontaneous thoughts that appeared without permission in my head. I will generously share them, while at the same time sparing you the dozens of other things that currently float about. Those may come later.

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Here goes:

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Be careful what you fail to wish for.

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It feels good to believe what is convenient, even if it is fake.

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This is a day the mind planned out the activities, but reality had its own plot.

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What would happen if nothing happened?

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When I share my burden with you I am somehow delegating part of that burden to you. If this is not my intention, why am I sharing it?

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I believe in mutually assured kindness.

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I run on three ascending states of mind—underwhelmed, whelmed, overwhelmed.

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Exactly when did I learn when to say When?

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I made him an offer he couldn’t accept.

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I always enjoy the storm before the quiet.

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Does hokey always precede pokey?

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Seven days have passed since last week occurred.

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I caught a Glimpse. It struggled a bit so I released it.

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When roaches abound, Flamenco dancers come in handy.

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Take today by the shoulders, give it a good shaking. Make it so that you will recall it with fondness and goodwill.

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Happily comport yourself as if you are somebody worth saying “Good morning!” to.

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Each day, make every effort not to make things worse.

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Thanks for mulling over my meanderings. I hope you jot down some of your own. There’s a lot of goofy and wise stuff floating about you. Might as well examine and learn to go with the float

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© 2025 A.D. by Jim Reed

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

https://youtu.be/xuvQqDIEhIs

or read his story below:

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Life, actually…

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WHAT’S BETTER THAN INHALING BEHIND AN IDLING BUS?

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She is standing before an old stained-glass church that houses the honors program at a local university. She is working on her tobaccolaureate degree.

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Alone, she puffs away, gazing wistfully at the branches of a big tree, who knows what,  going through her mind.

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If you take time to look, you’ll see other nicotined scholars, only they seem more isolated than they were prior to the advent of palmed phones.

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Way back when, puffers were the last sociable people on earth. They stood in groups before buildings high and low, chatting and sharing and signifying and learning more about each other than they’d ever learn inside their cocooned work places, where they stared at  screens or dozed spasmodically or filed nails or filed files.

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Outside, in the particulated air, they grew to know little things about the people they seldom spoke to once inside the buildings.

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Then, the pod-people devices came along, so that now, even though puffers still stand outside, many only talk into the ether to people whose bodies are not present, ignoring fellow solitudes who stand just inches away, talking into their armpits as if their conversations deal with life-threatening issues. Or they speak silently with pecking thumbs.

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Me? What do I inhale each day that is half better than what these folks inhale?

  Here is Jim’s Red Clay Diary story:  https://youtu.be/imtWDsZn_MY

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Life, actually…

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HOW TO PLAY PLOWSHARE PEEKABOO

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During my amazingly long life (Nature has been more than generous.) I have come to realize that just about everything repeats itself…repeatedly.

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My uncles returning home from World War II combat, brought with them small souvenirs, reminders of what they had endured under fire.

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There was a hollowed-out hand grenade, repurposed as an ashtray, re-imagined as a toy or living room gewgaw. There were small German-made toys plucked from bombed-out playgrounds. There was a section of silken parachute saved by my paratrooper uncle, two purple heart medals now available for children to wonder about, a cloth soldier’s cap ready for us young’uns to wear proudly. There was even a luger deactivated as a showpiece.

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And there were all those painful memories of combat that no-one dared share in unedited original versions. Our uncles told hair raising adult stories to adults…but only in private. They told the same stories to us tots and toddlers and teens, but only as carefully expurgated and humorous tales. They never talked about the horrors. They made sure we laughed at their wartime antics. They had learned the hard way how to turn swords into plowshares, how to compress the past and expand the outlier goodness that can also occur in conflict.

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They had already experienced in youth what we too would have to learn one way or another—that if you believe in “an eye for an eye…” pretty soon the world itself would be blind.

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When everything eventually repeats itself, when repetition itself is impossible to halt, then in between times become the most important, the most cherished times. Diving into the good life, holding on to family and friends and humankind…that must be the thing that there is always time for.

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We know that the repeated hard days will return, but we must learn to live as if this is not true. Hope and love and longing is the path worth taking. Respecting the past is reverent and human, but focusing on the good that is within us is worthy of our time here

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© Jim Reed 2025 A.D.

Catch Jim’s podcast: https://youtu.be/ZwiwruUnRFc

or read his transcript below:

.

Life, actually…

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EVOLUTION OF A SMART ALECK

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Maturity is highly overrated, according to Garfield the cartoon cat.

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Dipping back into the far past, long before Garfield existed, I find myself remembering how I learned to be noticed once in a while. Living within a family of two parents, five kids and various pets and neighbors and relatives, one must be clever but never destructive when vying for position.

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If I make a scene, throw a tantrum, spout something outrageous, mistreat siblings, I will never hear the end of it. But if I can capture interest, engage everybody in a special activity or diversion, attention will be briefly paid.

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Briefly-paid attention from others is my basic need as a child, my basic need to this day.

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I notice that the most insignificant things often rise up and become big-time important for a few seconds if properly executed.

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For instance, if I run through the house hoisting a large hosepipe attached to a vacuum machine, announcing, “I’m going to pressure wash my teeth. Be back in a minute!” I might receive a modicum of attention. Those familiar with my behavior will barely blink, those who do not know me might panic or duck for cover. Or laugh.

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If on the other hand I simply mention that I’m about to brush my teeth, no-one will notice or care.

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But wait—there’s more. If I say, “I think I’ll go to the bathroom and scrub my teeth,” people may look at me peculiarly but immediately continue their daily routines.

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To gain attention and a few laughs, I might yell, “It’s time for me to brush my nose and blow my teeth.” At that point I become the family entertainer. People might pause and wait to see what else I’m going to do—just in case it turns out to be funny.

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And so on.

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My main goal in life is to be so invisible that I can quietly take notes and write about everything that goes on, everything that does not go on, everything that I wish would go on, everything I wish would never go on.

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Invisibility is comforting. It is my cloak, my blankie.

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Now and then, I must emerge from invisibility to enjoy contact with other humans. This is when I find my smart aleck behavior to be useful. I can enjoy the interactions but I can also quickly vanish when enough is enough.

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Does this make any sense? If not, you too can escape me by descending into your own private briar patch. You don’t have to put up with people like me.

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I just provided you with an escape hatch.

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You’re welcome

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© Jim Reed 2025 A.D.

Catch Jim’s 3-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/L82c5XuCzNM

or read the transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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MISSING MOM

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I know where you live, Mom.

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Even though you have been out of sight for many decades, it is still quite wonderful to know that you haven’t really gone missing.

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I know where you live now. I know I can visit with you at will. I know you are always present, even though you are invisible.

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I thank you, Mom, for working overtime some 83 years…working overtime to make daily donations to the nurture and well-being and wisdom of the family you never gave up on.

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Even when there were gaps in my attentions and intentions, I loved you every day you were here on Earth. Your presence was so powerful, your influence so unflagging, that you remained my overseer, my guiding light, my shepherd, for all those years.

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The greatest gift I ever received from you, Mom, was the gift of attention, the kind of loving and ever-present attention that all good and able moms provide to their offspring.

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I took you for granted in a special way, a loving way. That’s because you were always in my corner, forever supportive of even my silliest endeavors, always waiting for my reappearance…always ready to share my rants and raves and gossips and concerns.

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Let’s face it, Mom. You were just the perfect Mom for a kid like me.

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And thanks, Mom, for being present in heart and memory. Thanks for remaining safely inside me. Thanks for being the sum total of all that is good in me. I need you every day.

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I will be your escort through all the days that remain

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© Jim Reed 2025 A.D.

Listen to Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast for today: https://youtu.be/gUUTaKb0Reg

or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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A DRUM ROLL FOR ROY

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   Imagine the horror of being a victim of the bad guys in a Roy Rogers 1940s cowboy adventure movie! Remember, Roy himself never killed or hurt anybody—well, maybe a punch or two stung some bad guys into repentance—and he certainly never did anything mean-minded.

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But when Roy wasn’t around on the big black white and gray screen, bad things could happen.

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One of the scariest things I ever saw in a Roy Rogers movie: the Bad Guys, deciding to rid themselves of somebody who might snitch on them, lock this guy in an empty oil barrel and drop it into a deep lake.

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Holy Cow!

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I was suddenly inside that barrel, feeling the rusty darkness trapping me on all sides, feeling my air running out, wondering if I’d die from suffocation or from drowning, depending on whether the water engulfed me before my breathing stopped, wondering how it would feel for my lungs to burst in a mighty panic of pain and helplessness.

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It was quite an experience, vicariously dying inside that oil drum inside that Roy Rogers movie inside the Ritz Theater inside my little Down South village.

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That’s why one day, when my father brought home an empty human-size oil drum for us kids to play with, I was filled with excitement—now I could act out all my fears by using that drum, controlling that drum, conquering that drum!

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And boy, did we kids do all of the above and more.

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For years, that oil drum was my favorite toy in the back yard. One moment, the drum would become a real drum—we’d bang on the sealed end with sticks and hands and whatever else would annoy adults and neighbors, whatever would delight and excite us.

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Another moment, the drum would become a large log floating in a river of grass. Two of us kids would stand up on either end of the tipped-over drum and pretend to be roughhewn loggers—try to stay in place and force the other kid to fall to the ground first, in a fit of laughter and disorientation.

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Or the drum would become a circus act. I’d stand on it and run rapidly forward, while the drum would roll backwards. This usually lasted a few seconds at most, but in those few seconds the circus fans would be on their feet, cheering in awe of my feat.

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Then, tipping the drum over and getting inside was an entirely new experience. Somebody else would roll that drum real fast and you would hold to the insides as stiffly as possible to keep from being pummeled to death.

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Or, even when nobody was around, you could get inside and roll yourself around, having a grand contest with yourself to see how long you could last, how far you could go before blindly bumping into something or someone—preferably not a disapproving adult.

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Other times, we would play Game Hunter and Cannibals. One or two of us weaker ones would have to play the Hunter victims, being slowly boiled into a fine meal in that vertical drum, while savages danced wildly about, anxious that their food not be overcooked.

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Fortunately, we had no matches, so we were only cooked by the heat of the sun and the radiating heat from inside the drum.

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When it suddenly began raining, you could get inside that drum and tilt it vertical, closed-end up, and stay dry—and hidden, if the need was there. And if lightning were to strike, perhaps the Frankensteinian result would be to become some kind of super-strong masked hero with electrical powers.

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During more deliberative moments, the drum became an encapsulated time-machine, and you could take your own fantastic voyages inside the metal darkness all by yourself.

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Oh, it was a grand toy, that oil drum, the kind of toy I wish I could share with all little kids who are tired of toys that do everything for you, toys you lose interest in immediately or, worse still, toys that hypnotize you for hours and give you nothing in return to imagine, think about later, go to bed tired over.

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The Roy Rogers Backyard Oil Drum will never be listed as a valuable collectible in any antique guide, but it’s the  kind of collectible that’s really important—the toy that stays in your mind and your heart all the way from childhood to old age.

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Wish you had been there

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© Jim Reed 2025 A.D.