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

Twitter and Facebook

 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

Twitter and Facebook

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

Twitter and Facebook

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

Twitter and Facebook