Catch Jim’s Red Clay Diary podcast on youtube: https://youtu.be/LbDUb4ROxso

or read his story below…

Life, Actually

ON NOMADS AND BIKERS AND OTHER BOOKLOVERS

A nomadic wanderer arrives, intent on acquiring authentic nostalgia that will later be affixed to the walls of a restaurant chain. She is happy with her trove.

A film director and crew spend the afternoon getting a scene just right in the small room where fantasy books reside. A talented actress and I get to repeat take after take until the filmmakers are satisfied. It is quite fun. Show biz.

An Oxford scholar visits and finds pleasure in the passel of C. S. Lewis books he can add to his collection. He, too, owns bookstores, and we carry on a conversation about nerdy things, bookie things, to our mutual satisfaction. He talks about Inklings, I talk about Bradburian lit.

A mischievous child finds the bookshop to be a playground. She meanders and pretends to be mute.

Bandanna head coverings mark the tribe of bikers who enjoy their visit and purchase a wide range of titles.

A favorite customer sports a cane and a ligament problem as he brings me up to date on a sci-fi series he’s following.

A retired librarian trades memories with me, recalls times when kids loved books and behaved in class and responded to her periodic SHUSH! And SSSSHHHH!

A WWII fan combs the wartime shelves and finds a classic or two.

A bookless patron cruises the aisles and looks puzzled when her companion finds excitement on the shelves.

One visitor wrings hands and explains how frustrating it is, trying to “get” friends and family to read good stuff.

A quick in-and-outer grabs a thriller, drops some cash, and heads bikeward to find lunch.

A quiet and furtive person whispers, “Where do you keep the occult books?”

A bright-eyed denizen looks me straight in the eye and begs me to recommend something really worthwhile. This, of course, gets me going…I do go on. Surprisingly, she takes my advice! Who knew?

I take a break in monitoring, sip a carbonated drink, breathe deeply, and prepare for the next thirty mini-adventures I will have before closing time.

I am happy to be so happy in my happy occupation

© 2021 by Jim Reed

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Weekly Podcast: REDCLAYDIARY

Catch Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast on youtube: https://youtu.be/k4ssCe91itA

or read his transcript below:

TRANSCRIBING THE TIME REMAINING     

I am a quiet listener, a covert observer, a note-taker, a silent transcriptionist. All things interest and intrigue me.

As a writer, this is sometimes an affliction, sometimes a wondrous pleasure.

 Today, I can’t help reflecting on the wispiness of life. Bear with me and perhaps we will discover our similarities…

“You know how it is you know how it is.”  The rapid street-talker is a bit overheated. He’s got scraggly hair of different lengths floating about, just over his ears and on the back of his neck. No other hair apparent.

But there is enough hair wandering that you can’t really say he’s bald. “You know how it goes you know how it goes,” he keeps saying.

I listen more closely.

He’s talking about the value of one product at Dollar General and how—you know, you know—it’s better at Wal-mart and how some things at Wal-Mart are not as good as Dollar General. “You know how it goes you know how it goes.” Family Dollar and Dollar Tree will eventually enter the rant.

I grin. Somehow, I know exactly what he’s talking about. I hear similar monologues wherever I go. Hordes of comparers telling no-one in particular how their lives are progressing. Even if most of their time is spent comparison-shopping, it is something to do. Something to do.

I watch as younger people, filled with energy, brimful of directionlessness, beautiful in their remaining baby fat, begin to sculpt themselves into who they already are. They are now their adult versions. Their skin changes, their bone structure changes, their entire demeanor becomes something they did not quite expect.

Unfolded and examined, their inner lives consist of a lovely mishmash of hopes, dreams, reflections, expectations, disappointments…band-aids here and there attest to their coping abilities, their daily hopeful regenerations.

Meanwhile, way past the majority of doled-out years, I spend time distracting myself from life’s inevitableness. I live on hope and fond memory. I long to hug loved ones once more. I do not expect gratitude, so I love it even more when it is offered. I tally received gestures, received gifts.

I am my own nation. Young or old, I suppose you are, too.

It is a joyful, bumpy ride, this time I have. What a journey!

As my imaginary friend Pig-Pen once said, “I have affixed to me the dust of countless ages. Who am I to disturb history?”

Someday, someday…after my absence is no longer noted, my dreams and I will become nothing more than half a mist in an old echo of a sweet memory

© Jim Reed 2021 A.D.

WEBSITE

Weekly Podcast: REDCLAYDIARY

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RUNTY SQUIRREL WINS MOTHBALL WAR

A ragged piece of roofing material PLOPS to the wooden deck attached to our home. The rough-surfaced grey material is heavy. It lands inches from my feet. It misses my head.

I quickly gaze skyward to see how this can happen. Peeking down at me from the roof is Runty Squirrel, a grizzled denizen of the ‘hood. Runty has just chewed loose another tile. At this rate Runty will soon make happen a nice new portal to the heavens.

Before I can react, Runty twitches, seems to gesture, darts away. In my imagination he’s mocking me, daring to risk another attack on the house.

Through the years, our ancient dwelling has experienced dozens of sieges from Runty and his gang. We’ve spent lots of loot on bloodless but unsuccessful defense strategies. Done much research and heard mostly hilarious but improbable solutions from folks who want to help but who don’t understand the nature of squirrels.

I am now philosophical about these critters. I sense that they recognize us as pesky invaders of the hills and valleys of Alabama. After doing battle with them I also realize that we are indeed interlopers. Humans come and go. Squirrels remain and bide their time, awaiting the day we’ll become nomads and leave them to their territory.

Wise and kindly thoughts such as these do not address my problem. I need to protect my home and family. I need to find a way to co-exist with Runty and company. l won’t destroy Runty’s nests if Runty won’t destroy mine.

So, I try one more strategy. I understand that, like me, squirrels hate the odor of mothballs. Indeed, word is that squirrels will move their nests away from any mothball-infested area.

This sounds too good to be true, but it is disguised as a simple and inexpensive solution to a mighty perplexity.

To make an already too-long story shorter, I obtain mothballs, clamber into the dusty attic, scatter the small naphthalene spheres all over the place, and smugly report to Liz that I think the infestation may soon be over. And, as a fictitious version of H.G. Wells once said, “The first man to raise a fist is the man who’s run out of ideas.” I’m bragging that I did not have to raise my fist.

Late that night, and many nights thereafter, I toss, turn, moan, cuss, and regret that I ever heard of mothballs. Their odor is powerful, offensive, probably dangerous to mere human me. They obviously have no effect on the squirrels, who still inhabit their nests.

I picture Runty and brood partying and dancing while nibbling pecans and mothballs as appetizers.

I concede defeat.

Liz finally makes the Inevitable Call. A nearby specialist is known far and wide as the Infestation Terminator.

Within days, he has sealed up egress, ingress, portal, exit, entrance…any place a squirrel can find access to us. The squirrels move out. I enter my usual Denial Mode, refusing to consider any possibility that tiny lives may have been snuffed out in the process. Hopefully not.

I still see Runty and his progeny circling the house, running along power lines, leaping from limb to limb, barely escaping feral cats, occasionally gesturing to me.

I can at least entertain the fantasy that we are co-existing. I can accept the fact that we will be long gone someday, that squirrels will continue resisting and existing.

Who knows? We could someday be Squirrel Planet Three. Long after human time has played out

© Jim Reed 2021 A.D.

WEBSITE

Weekly Podcast: REDCLAYDIARY

Catch Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary on youtube: https://youtu.be/MbmmdGl8eJk

or read his transcript:

Life, Actually

 THE ROAR OF THE DOPE FIZZ

 I am way back in time again, back to the 1940s and 1950s. Back when First Things Ever happen almost every day.

If you have a minute, I have a true tale to share.

I am sitting on the concrete base that supports a gasoline pump in front of my grandfather’s general store. This is a brief break from my chores. I watch traffic whiz by on the old Birmingham highway in this village called Peterson, Alabama.

This is the only week in my life when I have the privilege of working inside the store. It is a great honor to be chosen for this job—ask my cousins.

Earlier, I snap to attention behind the main sales counter as a rough edged coal miner squeaks open the front screen door, the door that sports a bright yellow metal sign depicting Little Miss Sunbeam beaming at you as she bites into a slice of white Sunbeam Bread.

The miner looks at me and grumps, “Gimme a Dope.”

I freeze in place, afraid to admit that I have no idea what “Gimme a Dope” means. I begin to sputter, but Uncle Brandon is within earshot and saves me. He stops his installation of new shelving made from cut-up Coca Cola sign metal and saunters over to one of the soft drink coolers.

The miner and I stare at each other and glance at Uncle Brandon, who deftly fetches a Coca Cola from the box, shakes off the water, clinks the top off, using the static opener, and hands over the thick bottle. The miner accepts the drink, drops a shiny nickel into my palm, smiles “Thanks” and heads for Miss Sunbeam.

It turns out that Cokes at one time in the distant past contained legal cocaine. Once banned, the cocaine disappeared but the nickname remains.

So now, during my first break from clerking, I sit and watch the traffic, watch Uncle Brandon pump gas. And I am ready to make the day better.

Just now, I reach deep into the cooler, fish out a Grapico, and exit the store. As I sit, I glug down the fizzy grape-flavored fluid and refresh my dry gullet. Life is good.

I am already thinking about the next break, should I get one. I plan to grab a Dope, fill it with half a packet of Tom’s Toasted Peanuts, and prepare to experience that salty, liquid, crunchy carbonation that only such a mixture can provide.

And I look forward to my grandfather’s placid smile as, late in the day, he will serve me a hand-double-dipped ice cream cone that only roadside store clerks like me can properly enjoy.

As I lie abed in the guest room of my grandparents’ home that night, I think about my lessons for the day. I’ve learned what good customer service is like, what unspoken kindnesses can occur in a small town, what family, real family, feels like, how hard work can be good and satisfying.

And I learned what a Dope was and still is. 

To this day, I remain a Dope fiend, taking a slug of morning caffeine from a Coke container…and occasionally, when nobody’s looking, I drop some salted peanuts into the bubbly brew and recall what life was like before it became overlayered with the weight of heavier times

© Jim Reed 2021 A.D.

WEBSITE

Weekly Podcast: REDCLAYDIARY