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Oh, Glendora, What Did They Do to You?

Right now, I’m bouncing my automobile into the 3rd Avenue North parking lot a few feet from the bookshop. It’s Any Day. Could be rainy could be sunny could be hot and humid could be breezy.

The morning routine is like all morning routines.

It’s always the same, always different.

The same because I accomplish my goal each day, that goal being to park safely, walk unpanhandled to the shop, gain entry and get rolling on attempting to make a living one more day.

Different because each habitual act is confronted with small variations on a theme. A gigantic scientist examining from above might see just the pattern, the routine, the sameness…tiny human rolls down the avenue, stops in a lot, scurries to the booknest. But a writer might see the intriguing variations…bookdealer wears a different shirt today, the load of books he’s hodcarrying is different from yesterday’s load of books, he’s walking more confidently than yesterday when he had a gout attack.

From the bookdealer’s point of view, it’s all the same, all different…first thing I smell as I exit the car is cigarette smoke produced by the addicts in the lot and on the street who take frequent breaks all day to breathe in breathe out the fumes that will eventually—but that’s another story.

Second thing I see is Glendora.

Glendora is the name I’ve given to the woman sitting in the window of the first office I pass.

Now, Glendora is pleasant-looking. Her dark hair clarifies a pale complexion. She is sitting in a desk chair in full side profile to passersby. There is a plastic device in her ear, and her fingers remain on the keyboard of the computer before her. Glendora stares at the screen each time I see her during the day. She looks neither left nor right.  She misses the changes in weather through the large window. She misses the odd variety of humans passing by at various speeds on various obscure missions.

She does not seem to be aware that, like a show window mannequin, she is on full display to all window shoppers.

Sometimes I nod at Glendora, hoping that, like many other folks, she will nod back with a smile. Never happens. She’s encapsulated in her world as securely as I am in mine. We are two planets treading space in parallel orbits, destined never to engage.

The irresistible force of observation takes over when I see interesting people. What is Glendora like? Does she have a family? Is her boss kind to her? Is she happy frozen in place each day? Is she working for the company on the computer or is it all facebook and chatter in between tasks? Does she read books? Never been in the bookshop, so that answers that. Does she dream of better things?

Where did I get the name Glendora? Why, from Perry Como, of course. As a kid of the 1940′s and 1950′s, Como sang about another Glendora who was frozen in time until Something Happened. Listen to the entire song. It tells a story:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wH9ihA889TQ

Here are the words to the song GLENDORA, written by Stanley Ray:

Here’s to all the Glendora’s of the world with whom I’ll never converse. I hope they are as happy as they are fascinating

© Jim Reed 2014 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

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High School Reunion: The Good The Not-So-Bad and the Gorgeous

It happened right in my face: the sudden realization that attending high school might not have been the nightmarish experience that I always thought. Well, it was nightmarish in a kind of entertaining way, if you think about it.

Nightmares can be much more interesting than the regular plodding, mind-numbing boredom of everyday living.

Where are these thoughts originating? Well, they began last night, when I attended my high school reunion.

This wasn’t just any reunion. Don’t laugh—it was my 55th reunion. No joke.

Reunions are peculiar phenomena. Lots of people never attend them, for a variety of reasons.

1. Maybe school was awful and you assume the reunion will be, too.

2. Maybe you are ashamed of the fact that you’ve put on weight, lost hair, acquired skin blotches and eyeglasses and a cane. Just don’t want to be seen like this.

3. Maybe you assume that the same old clique of popular kids will lord it over everything and fail to look you in the eye in much the same way they acted in hallways between classes.

4. Maybe you fear that you will see small sadnesses everywhere—beauty queens become bloated, wallflowers blossom and turn lovely, sexy students look sad, brilliant classmates morph into dullards, bullies become milquetoasts.

5. Perhaps you think you’ll be judged by how your career has turned out.

So, was last night fraught with fear and loathing?

Nope.

It turned out to be quite fun and exciting.

In truth, all us geezerly post-high schoolers are at a point where pretension and social structure and charisma matter not at all. We are just a roomful of people who all look very much alike in advanced age. We seem to be in about the same social class now. We’re not on the make, we’re not trying to sell anything, we’re not busy trying to top each other, and all judgmental observations have been replaced by empathy.

Empathy—that’s what makes this special reunion so special. Empathy.

When young, you don’t realize consequences, your jokes are about subjects you know nothing about, your casual acts and remarks don’t bounce back on you.

Once you’ve lived a number of decades, you’ve gone through just about everything you swore would never happen to you. Mother-in-law jokes fall flat because you once had a lovely mother-in-law, depression and illness and accident and conflict are not as easy to dismiss, because you’ve been through them in one way or another.

In other words, superficiality has gone down the tubes.

At the reunion, I have a chance to chat openly with people who didn’t seem to be aware of my existence. I get to catch up on the lives of people who were once great pals and friends. I become the absorber of many great anecdotes and stories I’ve never heard before. I get to check out reality—did I really once publish a diagram of the social structure of the school cafeteria in our class newspaper, and get in trouble for doing so? Did this particular person know I once had a deep crush on her? Did this guy ever know I existed? And so on.

This magical leveling of class and structure is fascinating and actually enjoyable.

We are all geezers who have gained wisdom and experience…and we seem to be the only ones with whom we can share this wisdom and experience. Nobody else wants to listen.

Anyhow, I feel good about last night. Some measure of closure is occurring.

Now, the importance of each of these classmates in my life is clear. Whether they know it or not, their very presence in the dusty red clay halls of Tuscaloosa High School helped shape me, helped guide me in my exploration of the larger world outside. And I didn’t even know it at the time.

Does this resonate with you? It would be interesting to know where your life stands along this continuum—er, Timeline to you youngsters—and whether you, too, are beginning to acknowledge the great influence of others on your journey.

Last night was a hoot. Wish you could have been a fly on the wall

© Jim Reed 2014 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

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Oh, no! Not another high school reunion!

I’ve been called to action by Fate and Folly.

High school classmate Bertha got me on the phone the other day and uttered those hypnotic words, “Would you come to the Class Reunion and tell some of your stories…you know, the funny things that happened in our years at Tuscaloosa High School?”

Yikes!

My emotions are mixed, to say the least. On the one hand, I’m flattered that at last I’m being invited to relate tales about growing up…in front of the very people who were there while I was growing up! They might not want to hear what I have to say.

On the other hand, I am torn between telling the naked truth, thus risking rejection or disapproval (sounds like high school itself, doesn’t it?), or carefully editing my anecdotes to focus on the funny and the poignant. Another way of saying this is, I can shoot first and run for the exit, or I can regale the crowd with the best and most entertaining memories and forget about trying to prove anything.

At my age, most petty anger is now spent, most resentments dismissed, all squabbles a thing of the misty past.

There are two ways to tell the truth, in writing or in storytelling. 1. You can be flat-out honest—thus, tactless and insensitive. Or 2. You can skip forward to the best and most positive notations on childhood—thus, engaging and nostalgic.

You can tell the truth either way…brutally or entertainingly.

The fact that I always choose the non-hurtful approach to the truth is simply an indication that I am painfully aware the world is filled with people who snark away and batter the reader/listener with the negative side of everything—which accomplishes nothing but resentment. I’ve had enough of that. Nowadays I merely wish to share my experiences with people who will in turn feel relaxed enough to compare notes about their similar journeys.

Does this make any sense?

Well, I’ll pull a few stories from my endless memoirs and hope that I extract a few laughs from the crowd, while perhaps making them squirm a bit, too.

The big event is this Saturday night in Tuscaloosa.

I’ll let you know how it turns out

© Jim Reed 2014 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

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Smack Dab and Inextricably in the Middle of Somewhere

Let us ponder for a moment the word inextricably.

Yeah, inextricably—one of those words that is most effective only if used sparingly and at exactly the right moment.

Inextricably.

Born into the world and borne through life as a book nerd, I can’t help now and then using words that make certain people uncomfortable. Down here in the South, when a word like inextricably pops out of my mouth, some folks raise their eyebrows and slowly back away. If I’m really wrapped up in what I’m expounding about, I may not notice this till later. And even if I don’t notice it at all, sometimes the wary listener will make an offhand comment like, “Well, I’m not a big reader, but I guess if I knew what some of those words mean that you’re using, I could figure it out.”

Oops! Didn’t mean to be off-putting. It’s just that nerdiness seems to be inborn, so inborn that I don’t even notice that I’m speaking in tongues to random people, without meaning to.

As a writer, my goal is to communicate clearly and with precision, but now and then inextricably creeps in and becomes a speed-bump to anybody’s understanding of what I’m trying to get across.

So, next time you hear me use one of those multisyllabic words that don’t seem to fit within your comfort zone, just catch my eye, tilt your head slightly, raise your eyebrows and say, “Say what?”

Maybe I’ll take a deep breath, tone it down a little, and get back to regular, clear talk.

After all, I’m not inextricably bound to that word

© Jim Reed 2014 A.D.

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HANGER MANAGEMENT 

I’m gathering trash from around the house, attempting to be a good guy by removing all detritus before Trash Day arrives tomorrow. You know, Trash Day—the day the earth-rumbling truck swooshes by and efficient city workers expertly pick up all our leavings and disappear into the sunrise, with only upturned garbage containers remaining as evidence of their existence.

As I go from room to room, I am amazed at all the un-reusable stuff we toss. But when I arrive at Liz’s dressing room I am confronted with a white plastic pail, from which protrudes a mangled mass of clothes hangers ready for expulsion.

This is the day after one of Liz’s annual Spring Rearranging Days, times when she goes through her vast accumulation of clothing and accessories and becomes the Lone Rearranger, dedicated to purging the undesirables and organizing the keepables.

Today it’s the orphaned coat hangers. Tomorrow it will be the newly-assessed shoes—I’ll glance into the same room and see an orgy of intertwined footware of every description piled and ready for triage. It’s an awesome sight.

But for right this minute, it’s the coat hangers, which are impossible to pack into trash bags, since their hooks tear into the plastic, their shoulders bulge out and break the sides. And they desperately cling to one another in powerful protest. It’s a wrestling and muttering match you really don’t want to be around to see and hear.

I put this kind of thing off for days, but eventually the hangers will have to go, lest Liz proclaims that it is them or me.

I become the Great Peacemaker, my sworn fidelity to the Lone Rearranger unshakable.

As I dispose of the wired critters, I hide a couple for their utilitarian purposes—as tools to use in unlocking car doors, unclogging sinks, retrieving stuff from under the sofa, reaching high for things…and so on.

They are safely hidden till Liz finds them next Spring and resumes the expulsion ritual.

But for now, during this one moment of satisfaction, I am the Great Peacemaker, the resident expert on both Domestic Harmony and Hanger Management

© Jim Reed 2014 A.D.

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The long-time shift filled with big-faced grins 

My McDonald’s order completed via raspy speaker and dancing screen, I proceed (in an orderly manner) to wend my way via automobile to the “pay” window.

Directing customers one by one is an elderly man sitting outside in the cold rain, plastic clothing barely protecting him from the damp chill.

He has a big smile on his face.

Nothing to do while I’m awaiting my turn, but to engage him.

I roll down the window and say something like, “This is the perfect day for not coming to work.” His smile gets bigger and he shouts out in a husky voice, “No, man, this is great. I like working outdoors. This is a good job!”

He means it, I can tell. And his demeanor and comment make me grin all over. The rest of the morning isn’t so bad.

Then, last night, Liz and I are leaving the house to dine with friends. Across the street, a middle-aged pizza delivery man is pulling to the curb and gathering his goodies to bring to a neighbor’s house.

Since I’m home from work for the evening, I wonder how he feels about this repetitive job.

I sing out, “I guess it feels like a long time till midnight right now.” He immediately gets my meaning and breaks out in a full-face smile. “Oh, this is no problem at all. I really like this work…you know I’ve been doing it for fourteen years!”

I reflect back his smile and congratulate him. He pauses a moment to engage.

“I think maybe you’ve delivered to my house,” I say.

He says, “You mean that one?” pointing to the yellow 1906 home with white picket fence.

“Yep, that’s us,” I reply.

“Oh, yeah, I’ve delivered to y’all plenty of times,” he boasts proudly.

Now I recognize him and realize he’s right.

“Well, we really appreciate you…and we’ll see you at our house next time!”

He waves a pleasant wave and proceeds with his mission.

And I decide to reduce my bickering about what a hard day I’ve had, next time I arrive home.

Hey, look, it’s really raining outside today—did you notice?

And do you notice how beautiful it is?

This will be a good day to come alive

© Jim Reed 2014 A.D.

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Home alone with quick unwholesome but eminently satisfying snacks

I am a lucky, well-fed man, living with the best cook in Southside Birmingham.

When we’re home together of an evening, Liz prepares special meals much the way a jazz musician does  variations on a well-known ballad. They are always good and unique.

Liz prepares the food, then makes up the recipe. Like a Zen master.

On the other hand, when I am alone at home of an evening, I do my own jazz preparations for dinner.

Liz being away at a meeting, I’m faced with the instantly solvable challenge of finding something to eat. My approach to the prospect of dining alone is to grab food items at random, in the order I see them.

For instance:

Pop open a jar of pimiento-stuffed olives, try to hook them with a fork one or two at a time, and munch while I search for—what—a chunk of hard cheddar cheese, which I nibble along with the olives. When young, I would mimic my father, who liked nothing more than to open a can of sardines and reflectively chew them one at a time upon saltines. Note: I haven’t had sardines in years, so I’ll have to get some next time grocery-shopping occurs.

Another instant snack consists of greasy crunchy largest-size rippled potato chips, sinfully salty and topped with chunky salsa. As a kid, nothing could beat a peanut butter (crunchy) and mayonnaise and lettuce sandwich on light bread—never toasted—with crusts intact. A quick fix for any occasion. I should try that again some future night.

On an infrequent solo evening, just the thing would be a grilled cheese sandwich—whole wheat bread fried in butter with melted cheese atop and steamed tomato slices, dripping and hot enough to scorch the tongue. Haven’t done that in a long time. Maybe I should make a snack-bucket list.

One night, a can of cheap chili con carne mixed with crushed tomatoes, juice and all. Lots of ground pepper and sea salt added, and something crunchy to nibble on simultaneously, like Ritz Crackers. Note to myself: I can do that again one night when Liz isn’t around to watch.

OK, I could go on, but I think it should stop about here—right after I eat sliced cucumbers, skin and all…or one whole cucumber, peeled, which takes on the characteristics of a melon, which I guess it is, isn’t it? In the same category, at times just grabbing a large raw carrot and noisily eating it while dipping it into soft cream cheese or freshly made pimiento cheese is the perfect meal. Message to Jim: eat a balanced meal on all evenings that Liz is at home…and thank the unknown gods that she’s home most of the time.

For dessert, don’t forget dark chocolate-covered cashews. If you’re already full, save this for next time. Or save a handful for Liz, who deserves them after all these decades of imagining what I must eat when she’s not around.

All of these snack fantasies will evaporate from memory next time Liz makes meat loaf for dinner. Life will be complete for at least that evening.

Liz’s meat loaf, after all, is the Nectar of the Goddess

© Jim Reed 2014 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

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HOW THE MENSCH STOLE PEACE AND QUIET

My friend the mensch walks calmly to the nearby diner for his lunch break, newspaper under his arm, deep breaths beginning to relax him after a morning of doing business at a rapid pace. For a little added downtime, mpo888 brings an easygoing way to unwind and enjoy a quick mental break.

The sounds of street and pedestrians and traffic and aircraft and construction workers swirl about him as he strolls. He is ready for twenty minutes of quiet dining and reading. As he munches his meal and scans the paper for news, he becomes conscious of something that has become a habit: He skips past stories of pandering politicians and dueling world leaders, averts his eyes when photographs of war crimes in progress appear, folds out of sight tales of corruption, rumors of pestilence, predictions of graft and injustices.

He is aware that nowadays he probes the news for evidence of hope. He tends to read articles about the wonder of spaceflight and the intrigues of new archaeological finds and the curious behavior of beetles and ants. And he searches for things that make him chuckle, pieces about ridiculous uses of language, wisecracks that crop up to lighten the load of gloomy news, features on the beauty of art and music, stories about insignificant people who do significant things, tales of other mensches who just live their lives without seeking credit or fame or attention or reward.

He finds that these little stories do still exist, but he has to look for them much as a detective searches for important clues.

The mensch knows that he cannot survive without all the noise of the ether to which society has become accustomed—dissonant music, snarky tweets, foxy TV exaggerations, over-the-top violent films and shows, gossipy factless interchanges within earshot.

He knows that this is his world and welcome to it.

But he is beginning to rebel in small ways that others do not notice. He carries earplugs in case he wants to drown out the loud unreconstructed disco beat at the diner. He is learning to disregard much of the hopelessly neurotic interchanges about him. He is turning off the car radio more and more as meaningless or repetitive messages are aimed at him. He no longer rushes to answer phone calls he can’t identify. When he does answer, he hangs up quickly should a brief silence occur before a salesvoice proceeds or when a pre-recorded announcement commences.

The mensch is also beginning to examine his own personal habits. He doesn’t always turn on the computer or television or cellphone when he arrives home after work. He is aware that the screens of these electronic objects are themselves a kind of hypnotic programming under the spell of which he has fallen.

So, thinking on these things, he completes his meal, places his paper under his arm, walks back to work, finishes the workday and heads for home.

Tonight will be different, he decides.

He walks into the house, finds a blank DVD disc, pops it into the player and sits watching the static play of meaningless electrons. He tosses the phone. Later, he plays a blank CD and blissfully listens to the quiet. Tomorrow he will lose the unopened morning newspaper. When he goes to lunch, he will carry a blank legal pad and write himself stories while munching.

Whatever he writes will make him far happier than anything else he does that day

© Jim Reed 2014 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

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pokingaboutinsomeoldguysemporium.mp3

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POKING ABOUT IN SOME OLD GUY’S EMPORIUM

An unfamiliar customer is poking about the bookstore, sniffing at books, handling old magazines, picking up and putting down objects from the past, seemingly puzzled.

Eventually, this customer says, “Now what is it that you do with all these things?” A pause. “Do people buy these?”

All I can do is follow the immutable rule every decent bookseller should follow—I keep a straight face, suppress my incredulity, smile big and explain, “Yes, people travel from great distances to purchase these wonderful artifacts.”

“What do they do with these things? They’re old,” the customer wonders, imparting his muted disdain, his wonder at how people could be so stupid as to wander outside the Cone of Wal-Mart shopping experience.

This is my chance to proselytize, which I do at every opportunity. But I hesitate expending the energy. This person seems to have made up his mind that I’m just a crazy old storekeeper surrounded by useless crap that nobody wants, probably living off retirement or family. Maybe I’ll save the sermon for the next customer who, as it turns out, is just the right person to guide through the joys of collecting and selling collectibles.

So, I just minimize my response, make a light remark, and suggest that, once finished here, he might enjoy going next door, to Sojourns, to shop among new and exotic items. This is what he eventually does. My goal is achieved—he leaves puzzled but happy, since I have not treated him with the same disdain he aimed at me. We’re both happy for the experience, and we’ll never see each other again. Meanwhile, Melissa at Sojourns might make a sale, thus she will be happy, too.

Win-win.

Why do I deal with such a variety of visitors in such a pleasant way? Well, partly because I am a writer, a writer who sees each person as a source of ideas, inspirations, ponderings.

If I were to write my mantra about this, here’s what I might compose:

Each person I encounter each person who comes across my field of vision each person who enters my store or talks to me across the counter or serves me or waits on me or ignores me or bypasses me or dismisses me or smiles at me, each person who seems interested in me for a matter of seconds, in me and my existence…each person is bringing an unconscious gift to me…and if I ignore the gift, if I don’t pause (if just in my mind) later and open the gift, I’m abandoning a fascinating Christmas tree with lots and lots of beautifully wrapped packages scattered about.

Why would I not want to open each one carefully, preserving the wrapping paper, cherishing what is inside, shelving for eventual poetic examination?

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

Y’all come by and poke around a bit

© Jim Reed 2014 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

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