Monthly Archives: November 2017

ATTACK OF THE TEENIE WEENIE ITSY BITSYS

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Listen to Jim’s audio podcast:
or read his story below:
ATTACK OF THE TEENIE WEENIE ITSY BITSYS
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It is true, you young’uns. Many of us in my ancient generation still read newspapers.
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We actually pluck newspapers from the front yard or the corner newsstand, pop them open, examine them page by page.
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Then, we ruminate. We ponder. We return to certain sections of the paper and make sure we understand the information therein.
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Sometimes we tear out an article to share one-on-one with someone who might find it interesting. Once in a while we grab a marker and highlight passages or wisdoms worth re-reading, worth holding onto.
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Down all the years, when you young’uns are raking through the remains of my generation’s hoarded memories, you will find things like newspaper clippings, penciled notes on napkins, ticket stubs, dance cards, invitations, lined notepaper filled with obscure and private scrawlings, thoughts scribbled in book margins, comments deemed profound hidden between sales receipts, pocket-sized notepads with earth-shaking revelations, love letters tied together with holiday ribbon.
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And so on.
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You see, we elders have our own way of communicating and preserving our memories. Each itsy bitsy note is a physical object sporting its own texture, fragrance, its own fingerprint. Each teenie weenie epiphany is a small time capsule that cannot be virtualized and imprisoned hidden away within an invisible electric cloud.
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We old-time hoarders may seem puzzling to you young’uns, but we do know things you do not know, just as you know things we do not know.
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In our case, we know that an actual original physical object is worthy of preservation because it is there to remind of us of what happened when, what happened where, and what when and where felt like in the palm of a hand.
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The original, special feeling that resides within a handwritten note or a wrinkled clipping merely awaits the opportunity to jolt an old and lovely episode  into sweet remembrance once again.
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No batteries necessary
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WHACKING AWAY AT THE DAILY NEWS

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Listen to Jim’s podcast:
or read his story below: 
WHACKING AWAY AT THE DAILY NEWS
Whack!
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My brow wrinkles at this sudden disembodied noise.
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Whack!
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There it goes again. Now my wrinkled brow is joined by grimaced jaw. What is the source of that annoying sound?
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Whack!
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That does it. I stop watching for the forever traffic light to give me permission to proceed. I scour the concrete asphalted landscape of Downtown to see what’s what.
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Whack!
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There it is. It’s emanating from a metal newspaper vending machine on the corner.
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Whack!
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A woman of indeterminate age is whacking her cigarette pack on the metal surface while bending double to read the visible front page through clear hard plastic.
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Whack!
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As she pounds the pack she artfully twirls it around so that one whack is top, the next bottom, just to make sure the cigarettes within compress themselves evenly.
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Whack!
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She continues to read, continues to bow, oblivious to all else, all others.
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Whack!
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Does she even know why she performs this ritual, or is it just something she’s always seen others do?
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Whack!
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Those are going to be some densely packed smokes, don’t you think?
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Whack!
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When I drive away she’s still reading the paper word for word, still whacking away, still doubled over.
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Just another mysteriously familiar activity of daily living Downtown in the naked city.
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This may not be the wackiest thing I’ll experience today, but for the moment it is definitely the whackiest
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I DONATED A SPECIAL MOMENT TO YOU. YOU’RE WELCOME.

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Listen to Jim’s podcast:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/ijustdonatedaspecialmomenttoyou.mp3

or read his tale:

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I JUST DONATED A SPECIAL MOMENT TO YOU. YOU’RE WELCOME.

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Long long ago in a neighborhood not so far thataway…
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 I am slumped over my plate at a diner or a cafe or an eatery or a bar stool counter or, you know, one of those special family places…and I am sopping and munching and slurping—because this is the kind of kitchen that allows me to be decades younger and somewhat noisy while at the same moment, polite and friendly.
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My Mama would not have had it any other way, as long as I mind my manners.
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The fragrances float about me so that, even with my eyes closed to the menu and the tableware, I can still tell you what’s cooking, what’s fresh, what’s leftover, what’s everybody’s favorite.
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It’s an Alabama diner, so everything is familiar and predictable and delightfully surprising all at once.
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There’s meatloaf and fried chicken and crusted catfish surrounded by real mashed potatoes and gravy, pickled beets, blackeyed peas, fried okra and boiled okra and okrafied tomatoes and corn muffins and cole slaw and iceberg lettuce parts and dressings and catsup and salt and pepper and pepper sauce and steak sauce and butterbeans and dumplings and mushy slow-cooked greens and lots, lots more.
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Guaranteed to kill you prematurely, but with a big, safisfied smile on your face and an extra notch on your belt.
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The cashier over yonder is totallng up a big order with a pencil before she enters it into the register. She is licking the just-applied chapstick coating from her lips.
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A customer walks in from the encroaching outdoor heat, fanning her hand in front of her face as if to indicate that she’s being cooled off. The cashier taking more orders has a momentary break and is again laving lip balm onto her mouth while another woman is sitting there, having just ordered…and is overwhelmed by the fragrances just described.
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“Ooh man,  this place smells way too good,” I say. “Think I’ll dab a bit of sauce behind each ear and go out into the world.”
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She grins at me and at a guy whose t-shirt reads, “Parental discretion…contents something something…”
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I prepare to settle my tab and sally forth into the heat. The cashier licks at the balm a bit more. Life is complete for a few seconds.
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There, I just donated a moment to you.
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You’re welcome
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