Life, actually…

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REEL LIFE IN THE 1950s

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The shiny new Silvertone reel to reel tape recorder hums idling in my darkened childhood bedroom. I am preparing to audio-record a radio show, and it is two minutes till air time.

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The time is 1959, when my world is still young and ladened with hope.

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I just purchased this metallic time machine, agreeing to make monthly payments till all debt is settled. My fevered dreams are invested in the craft of making time repeat itself at my leisure.

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The needle volume gauge awaits the push of a button. The motor rumbles and vibrates. The pristine rheostat knobs beg at the starting gate.

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And now, the radio station ID spoken, the daily comedy show begins and the reels start spinning. The left-hand reel moves counter-clockwise, feeding a brown plastic ribbon past magnetized cubes, the right hand reel neatly spools the now-recorded sound.

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Within minutes I will have my own repeatable archived recording of the Bob and Ray Presents the CBS Radio Network show.

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Once I’ve pressed the STOP button, I push REWIND and watch the left-hand reel re-claim the fresh recording.

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Later tonight, just before sleepville, I will re-load the program, push PLAY and slowly fall asleep grinning to the improvised shenanigans of the two funniest comedians of my lifetime.

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How could life feel any more satisfying than it feels right now?

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This is as good as it gets, at least for this crystal-clear one-of-a-kind moment in time

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Jim Reed © 2021 A.D.

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WEBSITE

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Weekly Podcast: REDCLAYDIARY

Life, actually…

WHEN BIPPY AND BEEPER RULED

“Beep me.”

“Page me.”

“Call my pager.”

“Here’s my beeper number.”

“Uh, where’s the charger?”

If you remember all these phrases and thoughts, you are getting on up in age. Looking back, it is difficult to understand how beepers were a real Thing for a time.

Much ado about mostly nothing.

The concept of non-emergency crises seems to have been invented just in time for paging, right before we learned to spend our waking hours on inconsequential matters via thumb-poked phone.

Yes, Children of the 21st. Back before and during my time, there were no cellphones.

We did have other ways to communicate, each of which came and went as fashion swayed to and fro.

There were walkie-talkies and two-way radios and telephones and telegrams and semaphores and smoke signals and megaphones and tin cans joined by string…

And voice to voice hosepipes and postcards and letters.

There was sky writing, there was the Pony Express, there were letter carriers, there were pigeons and couriers and, and…well, there were plenty of ways to communicate, plenty of ways to annoy someone.

Great inventions all.

But progress often accompanies regress.

With any communications advance comes the opportunity to relay useless and irritating messages.

Then came beepers, a 1970s fashion accessory, invented right before hand-toted electronics conquered the world.

Invented at the same time but in parallel societies was the bippy.

The bippy was a verbal device designed to make you giggle. Used only by comedians and wisecrackers, bippy had no meaning at all. Later, made-up  words like yahoo and google were inspired by bippy.

Silly and meaningless and unforgettable.

Back then, during bippy and beeper times, every executive or entrepreneur or professional just had to possess a beeper. Clipped to belt or purse or pocket, peeping out from a holster, hiding deep within an inside pocket, there lurked a beeper, a pager, or whatever else they were called.

When your beeper “went off” or paged you, you were required to grab a nearby phone and “call the office” or “call home” to see what the urgency was.

This made you feel connected, important, superior.

Whatever happened to all those beepers that are now cast aside?

For that matter, whatever happened to bippies and bippy jokes?

Bippy jokes made us chuckle even when we were not feeling so chuckly.

I’d like to spend just five minutes one day, once more contemplating my bippy and responding to my beeper. Five minutes would be about all I could tolerate.

You can bet your sweet bippy, er, beeper, it would be harmless fun.

And harmless, non-judgmental, non-shaming fun is exactly what I could use a bit more of.

Pardon my grammar. My beeper just went off and my bippy made me do it

(c) 2021 A.D. by Jim Reed

Catch Jim’s podcast:

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jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

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Listen to Jim’s 4-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/2G32pLL3Kqo

or read his transcript below:

Life, actually…

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MY ’54 CHEVY OIL GUZZLER AND I GO EXPLORING

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I am now time-travelled back to the days before interstate highways were a thing. I struggle to legally-park the green machine—my very first car, a rusty 1954 Chevrolet.

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Today, I get lucky. It only takes six forward-reverse maneuvers to land between designated white lines. I creak open the driver’s door and check to make sure adjacent vehicles are safely distanced from my precious cruiser.

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I enter the Jitney Junior—what you folks in the future will call a convenience store–and select enough snacks to last me through my upcoming journey.

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As I head down the winding blue road, I feel my independence beckoning. While inside this upholstered automatic-shift rattler, I am my own boss. I am king of my own little booth of privacy.

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The AM radio picks up a staticky signal, providing me with a private performance by Nat King Cole. The green machine and I politely stop to allow a rattling locomotive to pass by. A quick glance and a smiling wave are offered to the engineer. He returns the gesture.

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Once the earth stops rumbling, once the flashing red signals are dampened, once the coast is clear left and right, I push gas peddle, savor rail bumps, and begin the  journey.

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In the rearview mirror I see plumes of blue-gray smoke as acceleration occurs. In the trunk are unopened cans of motor oil. I use several quarts a week, not to mention the required gallons of gas. A just-in-case empty gasoline can shudders next to the oil containers. An oily rag rests atop them, useful when frequent fluid checks are needed.

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Eventually, I pass city limits signs and arrive in the village of Moundville. The state park is my destination. While it is only a short distance from home, it is a great distance from civilization.

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Moundville is the quietist place. Very few people travel here among the enormous mounds constructed by long-gone Native Americans. The quietness is appropriate. The quietness is homage to the thriving village that used to be here. Beautiful green grass covers the mounds. Silence hovers, forcing introspection and meditation.

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I drive through the enormous area, then enter the museum that displays instructive artifacts and exhibits that remind those of us living that there were once earlier families and tribes going about their daily lives.

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Since childhood, my infrequent visits to Moundville have infused my imagination with the idea that others came and went before me. And that I, too, have arrived and will eventually be replaced by future others who in turn will live their lives…

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My sobering moments completed, I am now ready to check the oil, test the faulty gas gauge, dispose of cellophane wrappings that once housed nibbles, brush away the crumbs, and head back to my tribe.

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As I pass shops and eateries and service stations and asbestos-shingled bungalows and dusty side roads, I ponder a bit about things like small temporary villages, passing behaviors, gossamer lives, love and life and death, passion and listlessness, moral high and low grounds…you know, things that are unsolvable but must be mentally massaged once in a while.

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I think about the joys and terrors that I may experience in the coming decades of life on earth. I struggle to write these feeling and observations down so that each moment will mean much more than just another day, just another life.

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I am destined to be a writer and recorder. I just don’t know it yet

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Jim Reed © 2021 A.D.

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WEBSITE

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Weekly Podcast: REDCLAYDIARY