Catch Jim’s 3-minute podcast:  https://youtu.be/jmDqEj9vy14

or read his thoughts below: 

THE FEAST OF REMEMBRANCE ABOUT TO BEGIN

A plastic-gloved cook behind the deli counter teeters beneath the weight of a large shallow metal pan, deposits it into a form-fitting slot, peels away the Saran cover.

Through the glass that separates her from expectant customers, she can be seen wiping clean spillage surrounding the steaming marshmallow-speckled sweet potatoes. She reaches behind to retrieve a large serving spoon, places it nearby.

Let the feast almost begin!

The familiar fragrance beckons my taste buds, excites fond memories that extend backwards through decades piled upon decades.

Yams are mandatory at festive celebrations. Christmas. Thanksgiving. Family get-togethers. Reunions. Post-funeral gatherings. Birthdays. Fourth of July picnics.

In my times long adrift, I remember little things. Things that increase in size with each passing moment.

Sparklers in the hands of merrily lawn-dancing kids. Dumplings. Backyard barbeque. Spongy biscuits made from scratch. Laughing uncles and aunts and cousins and buddies and playmates and family. Fresh-picked-and-hot-buttered corn on the cob. Homemade ice cream with sliced peaches afloat. Tomatoes grown just a few feet away. Kosher pickles and crunchy carrot sticks.

Now the cook behind the deli counter, netted hair, white apron and all, is bringing forth another heated pan, this one brimming with crunchy fried chicken. Serving doesn’t begin for another ten minutes, so waiting becomes almost as intense as all those memories.

Deviled eggs. Babbling babies. Goofy kids filling cups with sweetened iced tea. Salt and pepper shakers awaiting vigorous shakes. Meat loaf soft and warm and beckoning. Paper straws and pacifiers and mushy peas in Gerber’s jars. Gravy. Red sauce. Catsup. Mustard. Hot peppers. Solemn blessings delivered by solemn patriarchs  prior to digging in.

One large pan of crusty corn bread completes the deli spread. And now we diners are about to queue up and prepare ourselves for overstuffing and remembering.

Remembering. Remember how nice remembering can be?

Fleeting remembrance being the most soul-enriching thing that can possibly happen during the next few minutes at this cafeteria

© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed

WEBSITE

Hear Jim’s 4-minute podcast at https://youtu.be/V5T7auhr5OQ

or read his transcript below:

THE TUSCALOOSA SEARS STORE DOUBLE-DIP CAPER

If I close my eyes for a moment or two, I find myself traveling back to days that are long gone but always right here, awaiting reanimation.

This time, I am back in long-ago Tuscaloosa, speeding toward the Sears Roebuck store on 15th Street.

My second-hand—maybe third-hand—wobbly-wheeled bicycle bounces over curbs and along railroad tracks on the way home from the old Victorian home housing the public library. I have exited Shangri-La, book in hand, and am now headed for nirvana.

I screech to a stop at Sears, park the unchained bike (who would bother stealing it?) and head indoors, hoping against hope that the candy counter is open for business.

You won’t remember how the Sears candy counter was structured if you aren’t as old as I. 

It is a free-standing island in the middle of the store, a blocked-off area surrounded on four sides by glass display cases filled with every dentist’s dream: tons of sweet confections.

The ritual is simple. I slowly encircle the rows of candy displays, gazing carefully at each and every item, imagining the taste and texture and heft of all these wonders, until I return to the spot where I began.

Then, invariably, I do the exact thing I’ve done a hundred times before. I approach the counter wherein the double-dipped chocolate covered peanut clusters beckon. 

I wait patiently for the candy counter clerk to notice me, never once removing my eyes from the peanuts, afraid someone will buy them up before I get my shot.

The clerk comes over, stares down at me over the scales, and asks pleasantly, “May I help you?”

I try to contain my excitement. I say in a steady if sometimes crackling voice, “Yes, I’d like some double dipped chocolate covered peanut clusters, please.”

“How much do you want?” she asks. I look at the per-ounce price and quickly count the change in my pockets.

“Uh, two dollars’ worth, please.”

The clerk opens her  side of the case to access the candy, fills an aluminum scoop with just under the correct amount ordered, and places the coated peanuts in a white paper bag atop a shiny scale.

Then, she does a most remarkable thing, a thing few clerks know how to do these days.

She weighs the bag, notes that it needs just a few more peanuts to rise to the two-dollar mark, scoops those up and bags them, folds the top of the sack, collects my money and hands over the goods.

The  other clerk, who is absent today, is the one no-one wants to deal with. She is the clerk who scoops up too many peanuts at once, bags them, then tilts the bag to empty its overloaded contents down to the two-dollar mark.

The first clerk makes me feel I’m getting something extra, the second clerk appears to be taking something away from me.

A life’s lesson I carry with me to this day.

I love going to the old Fife’s Cafeteria these days in downtown Birmingham for precisely the same reason I used to go to Sears. The servers in the line always add a little something to each serving, as if they’re slipping me an extra treat.

Blinking back to the present time, I am now in my bookstore, reminding myself to treat each customer as if there’s something extra in the book bag. I throw in a bookmark, give a modest discount, add a smile and a “hope you have a great day,” hoping that here and there, a customer will “get it” and appreciate these small attentions.

Even if the customer doesn’t notice, I do. I notice. And I go home feeling just a wee bit better about the world.

And, now and then, these days, I search the countryside in vain for some great double dipped chocolate covered peanut clusters served in a sparkling white paper bag

© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed

WEBSITE

Listen to JIm Reed’s Red Clay Diary blog:  https://youtu.be/cBsYLqoxmcc

or read his story below:           

WHAT TO WRITE WHEN YOU CAN’T WRITE     

 You can tell I just conducted a session for writers—professionals, wannabes, muses, students, learners. That is, you can tell by reading and pondering over a little message I delivered to them. Here is what I said in Orange Beach, Alabama on Sunday morning.

     Here’s something I wrote when I couldn’t think what to write.

     I just let my hand move with the pencil.

     Or maybe the pencil took over and moved my hand.

Sometimes I say things I don’t mean to say.

Sometimes I say things I do mean to say.

Sometimes I say things I do mean to say but don’t want

  you to know I meant to say.

Sometimes I say things I don’t mean to say and hope you

  know I don’t mean to say.

Sometimes I say things I do mean to say but hope you

  think I didn’t mean to say.

Sometimes I say things I do mean to say but hope you get

  the point of what I meant without being able to criticize

  me for that moment of seemingly unintentional honesty.

Sometimes I say things I do mean to say but hope you’ll

  think I didn’t mean to say so that you will get the point

  without my having to take any responsibility for what

  I’ve said.

Sometimes I say too much.

Sometimes I say too little.

Sometimes I wish I could say everything I want to say and

  have somebody not get bored.

Sometimes I wish I were cool enough to make bold and

  lasting statements without ever saying much of anything

  aloud.

The point is, writers gotta write. Even if they think there is nothing to write about. Not writing about not writing is itself something to write about.

If you are a writer or a ponderer or a reader or a muse or wonderer or a wanderer among words, try writing about nothing or something or something in between.

Good luck, comrade of words unspoken and words spoken. Let’s see what you come up with

© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed