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

or read on…

COMING BACK THE OLD WAY

From the earliest times of remembrance, when I was a tad hanging on to every word uttered by family and kin and villagers, I was awed by the things I knew I would never experience first hand.

I remain awed at the lives I will never lead, at the lives I can only imagine in passing.

Coming back the old way from Tuscaloosa to Birmingham I imagine more than I actually see. I skip the all-too-efficient and soulless interstate highway, veer off to cruise the two-lane blacktops, the blue roads that used to crisscross old folding gas station maps.

I toss aside the idea of GPS and dive into the antiquated concept of driving around till something out of the ordinary presents itself.

Oh, the things I see.

Leaning barns, truncated railroad tracks, bullet hole-enhanced Stop signs, ragged children playing ragtag games in merrily cluttered front yards, leftover Christmas decorations dangling from rusted mail boxes, pickup trucks with FOR SELL signs, loose gravel driveways, shiny and tarnished tin roofs, a three-legged dog romping along, buggy bugs splattering against my windshield.

There’s more.

Single-lane red mud roads disappear into camouflage woods, abandoned tractor tires make great playmates, rope swings dangle from trees, elderly women wave from front porches, kudzu continues its plan to conquer the world, aluminum siding braces for the next tornado, sunburned orange-suited prisoners pick up trash, an abandoned meat-and-three diner gives up and ages rapidly, impatient truckers whiz past, a lone and scraggly horse stares into space, an armadillo narrowly escapes being squashed, one pedestrian plods along toward the next convenience store.

All these signs of life are mysterious and enthralling, all these signs of life are stories unfolding.

There is always more…

Grazing cattle await their fate, potholes plot against alignment, a straw-hatted fisherman meditates next to a muddy stream, billboards tout local political dreams of power, an already grizzled teenager grabs a smoke, yard sales offer old baby clothes and plastic pedal cars, boarded-up cinder block buildings hide their contents, pine trees proliferate or tumble, a biker bar forbids further examination, remains of villages nurture their ghosts, KEEP OUT signs obscure silent sadnesses, microwave towers mock the past, friendly servers offer menus and sweet tea relief.

Coming back the old way reminds me that this is my land, the land I come from. It also reminds me that I am no longer a resident, that I am a now stranger in my own land.

The blue roads re-animate wonderful memories. They exist to excite my past and force me to re-examine both past and present.

The blue roads caution me not to snub all the secret stories waiting to be told, but they also tell me to record what I see so that future travelers down the old way will take a second look, a fresh appreciation…a deep respect for all villages and villagers past and present and future, in a land as varied as varied can possibly be

© 2019 A.D. by Jim the Reed

Listen to Jim’s audio podcast:  https://youtu.be/BDbH4ro3NBY

or read his story…

IS THAT YOUR REALLY TRULY NAME?

Just for the sake of idle chat, let’s ponder something imponderable.

What if we traverse the spectrum of times past and re-embrace the concept of naming people the names they earn the moment we meet them?

Here’s a list of people I know or notice. Their names jump quickly to mind, even before I know their legal monikers. Even if I never learn their legal monikers.

Liz of the Leaping Mind.

Quick Eye Jack.

True and Actual Ernie.

Jimbo Dumbo.

Patti Patient Spouse.

Riley of the Written Word.

Quiet and Holy Mommy.

Pal Powerful Presence.

Joan of the Thoroughly Spun Tale.

Witty Quip Frank.

Mandy of the Roving Eye.

Sassy Leg Becky.

Susie Stoic.

Regina of the Power Mom.

Fiona of the Forlorn Face.

Jim the Scrabbler.

Speedy Mouth Mary.

Bill of the Orange Grove Kayak.

I have a name for everyone who saunters through my life, a name that names itself, a name over which I have no control.

So, when next we meet, why not reveal to me my real name, the name you harbor but never say aloud? If you wish, I will do the same for you.

Mind you, if these unspoken names are naughty or not nice, why don’t we refuse to utter them? And if we are being truly really kindly, why don’t we re-think them and come up with names that reflect the best or most fascinating aspect of one another?

This is not something worth starting a war over. But it is a tiny and harmless opportunity to re-assess and find common ground midst the confusions and contusions of a world gone partly mad

© 2019 A.D. by Jim the Reed

Listen to Jim’s 3-minute audio podcast: https://youtu.be/JDUuun_koV0

or read his story below…

PURPLE AND PINK MOTHER

(In sweet memory of Frances Lee McGee Reed, 1913-1997 A.D.)

You would have enjoyed knowing my mother.

Mother was, among many other delightful things, a piddler.

In my generation’s mind’s eye, a piddler is someone who piddles around, doing things that are very important to the piddler but of almost no importance to anyone else.

After knowing Mother for all her 83 years, I came to understand and appreciate piddlers, and indeed I’ve become a piddler myself.

When she was alone, Mother loved nothing better than to piddle around in the yard, talking to the flowers and plants, chatting merrily with any animals that happened to stray into her line of vision, and exchanging pleasantries with folks who caught her eye.

She would trim, dig, plant, rearrange, fondle, dust, and wash anything at all that she came in contact with in her yard.

On days when she couldn’t get outside, Mother would piddle around inside the house, doing much the same things that she did outside, except that when house-bound, she would write notes and letters and cards. Much of the time these notes and letters and cards, jotted down on any scrap or pad that presented a paper surface, would be addressed to herself—notes about things she needed to do, notes about her feelings of happiness or anger and frustration, notes about things she hoped other people would do, notes about her hopes, notes about her small despairs.

Other notes would be left around the house and inside just about anything, and they would be notes about what she would like to do in the future, or notes that she hoped her family would read someday, or notes describing things she did not want our family to forget.

She left notes on the backs of hanging pictures and photographs, so that we would not forget who and what they were all about, and she never abandoned her firm belief that each and every note, each and every scrap of paper, was just as precious as all the wonderful stuff she accumulated.

Mother never willingly threw anything away, much to the joy of some of her children, much to the horror of some of her children.

Mother’s home was a time capsule, and she always hoped that somebody would come along and appreciate each and every bit of paper and odds and ends as much as she had appreciated them.

So, not too long after her death, we five brothers and sisters gathered at our childhood home and began unsealing Mother’s time capsule. We spent our brief hours enjoying and reminiscing and mourning the one and only greatest piddler of all time.

Soon after Mother’s funeral, I dragged myself out the front door of our home some fifty miles from where I was born. In the middle of winter I made my way halfway down the sidewalk before I realized that for no reason at all our Japanese magnolia tree had pink-and-white-and-purple-blossomed itself into full beauty.

A piddling tree that seemed infused with the sweetness of Mother’s soul.

Pink and purple were Mother’s favorite colors, you know.

Thanks for another note, Ma

© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed

Listen to Jim’s 3-minute audio podcast: https://youtu.be/znMtUXb3ZSA

or read his words below…

ATTENTIONING THE CHAPERONES

I am racing westward toward the daytime setting Moon, throttling forth in a gasoline-frenzied vehicle designed to provide me with a sense of being in control of life and limb.

A captive of the internal combustion engine, a victim of manufactured needs and media-induced desires, I am aquariumed in this metal and plastic pod, preoccupied with steering wheel and pedals, focused on….what?

My intensity snaps for a moment when I glance above the asphalt pathway to see something startling and poetic and, well, quite beautiful.

In the full-on daylight sky, the Moon is hovering unnoticed. What is it doing up there? Moonlight is relegated to nighttime, isn’t it? But there it is, right before my eyes, busily being The Moon.

Suddenly, all the focus and neurotic forward thrust of my barely visible life does not seem as important as it was a few seconds back in time.

Hey, look! There is a Moon to behold!

Why isn’t everybody gazing and smiling at this large hunk of cosmic rock? Why are we not pulling off to the side of the road to stand outside our thrusting cages? Why are we not daytime moonstruck? Why are we so intent on these Earthling errands and chores when there is something so miraculous and benevolent right there, just for our enjoyment and puzzlement?

I’m still the ancient geezer with the wonder of a small child trapped within me. Time to nurture that part of me that remains open to the universe.

I can see the moonlight, even though it is drowned out or diminished by sunlight. It is there all the time, awaiting the attention of dreamers.

And in between times, when the Moon is not in the afternoon skies, there is the Sun to ponder—an orb so bright it cannot be observed directly. An orb so bright all I can do is pay attention to everything it illuminates, everything that reflects its light.

The Sun is all that keeps us going. Respect must be paid.

I snap to attention and continue my journey.

The beauty of the setting Moon is that it remains calm and available. The beauty of the moonrace is that it is unwinnable, thus always there to tease out our wadded dreams, smooth out their wrinkles, allow us moments like the one I just experienced.

The Moon and the Sun dance for our pleasure and inspiration. Time to reward them for their company, their constant companionship, their guardianship over us all.

They make good chaperones.

Time to blink at the Sun and wink at the Moon, just to let them know

© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed