Life, actually…

.

A DOZEN SWEETENED MOMENTS

.

This morning is a morning of waiting.

.

The cube-shaped room in which I wait is filled with wobbly tables, preacher-hardened chairs, a walled ever-blaring television set, a picture window overlooking a herd of automotive vehicles that seem to be dreading fates tiny and large.

.

The cube room also sports a coffee maker ledge, real and artificial sweeteners, plastic stirrers, Styrofoam containers, textured paper napkins, a very large vending machine filled with all the things nobody should ever eat, all the things everybody eats anyhow.

.

Oh, did I mention that the cube room is also peopled with people?

.

I sit facing away from the television overlord. I can’t help but watch the waiting people, much more interesting and engaging than streamed ads and shouting interviewers.

.

A slow-moving man and woman enter and search for suitable seating, their politeness and manners boldly contrasting with others in the room who are attention-locked by oblong plastic-and-metal-palmed devices.

.

The device people glance blankly at me, quickly resume their internal journeys. The slow-moving couple settles in, each scanning the room for signs of life.

.

An employee enters and heads for the coffee maker and says to all of us, “Anybody want a cup of coffee?” as in, “I’m willing to prepare a cup for you before I pour my own.”

.

“Uh, I think that sounds good,” the woman says, a gentle smile and elegant Southern accent accompanying her voice. Her response to the question is not automatic and obligatory, but carefully considered, weighed and uttered.

.

I feel comforted, hearing and seeing what we of old might call well-mannered graciousness.

.

“There’s sugar and cream,” the employee notes.

.

We all hear the gurgling, inhale the soothing fragrance of warming brew. And, despite aggressive messages issuing from the screen, despite impending verdicts that will eventually enter through the door, despite the dismissive attentions of lock stepped non-engagers, we share soft moments of pleasured sipping.

.

There must be fifty ways to view moments like this, most of them silent and barely noticed. But these are the moments I recall so vividly, later in the day.

.

This Deep South village contains so much good will, if only I take the time to cherish it.

.

I imagine that there are thousands of villages like this throughout the world, where other people recognize each other and for a brief span ignore the irrepressible need for conflict that jumps at us now and then.

.

I hope I will experience a dozen moments of kindness today. I hope you will, too

.

 © Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

.

Life, actually…

.

THINGS BETTER LEFT UNSEEN

.

A puff of blue smoke appears from around the corner of a village structure.

.

Like Native American signals of yore, this puff announces an upcoming event. An instant later, Bobby J. appears mid another cloud of smoke.

.

He heads my way, his exhalations as powerful as his inhalations.

.

Bobby J. is this moment’s Wyatt Earp. He struts along, cigarette in one hand, unholstered phone in the other, yelling into  his palm and sucking in as much of his portable stormcloud as possible.

.

Bobby J. is primed for action, his close-shaved head and confused tuft of beard framed by a black tee-shirt emblazened with a Harley slogan. He lopes along, enclosed in an emotional tirade aimed at the phone, his angered breathing fiercely sucking in and spewing words and smoke.

.

I stand in Bobby J.’s way on the cracked sidewalk, so I quickly move aside, pretending to be oblivious to his drama. I sweep leaves and butts toward the beckoning gutter.

.

He chugs past me and turns the next corner. Burnt tobacco and echoed invectives dissipate.

.

Did I want to witness this? Doesn’t matter, does it? Things happen and fade away.

.

Bobby J. is his own story imprisoned within his own fate. But he is suddenly immortalized this instant, a living image embedded in this story.

.

Will future readers recognize him by my description? Will his cameo appearance in front of the bookstore roll with life’s credits at the end of the show?

.

Will Bobby J. ever realize how unique and special he is? Will those who love or hate him find anything remarkable about him? Will there ever be an accounting of the good he has done, the bad he has done, the kindnesses he dispensed, the bumbling-along image he projects?

.

This is not for me to know. Whatever will be will be.

.

All I know is that I did what any artist might do. I paid attention to him when there was no-one else around to feel his moment.

.

There you have it. I guess this page is his gift unopened

.

© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

.

Life, actually…

.

 HIDE YOUR THINGS LOCK YOUR CAR TAKE YOUR KEYS

.

 HIDE YOUR THINGS

.

LOCK YOUR CAR

.

TAKE YOUR KEYS

.

There’s that metallic sign again. I see it now and then, here in this Deep South village. A reminder like a note your Mom once packed in your school-bound lunch. HIDE YOUR MILK MONEY. Love, Mom.

.

I feel certain that those who dreamed up the slogan, got it approved through all the proper channels, had it manufactured, distributed and installed…I feel certain that they feel some pride in instructing us civilians to be cautious and mindful.

.

So, obey your Mom and your police department.  HIDE YOUR THINGS LOCK YOUR CAR TAKE YOUR KEYS SECURE YOUR MILK MONEY.

.

What else would police and moms have us do, assuming they had our attention for more than three seconds?

.

CHAIN YOUR BIKE, PULL YOUR PANTS UP OVER YOUR REAR CLEAVAGE, HIDE YOUR NOSE BEHIND YOUR MASK, DON’T DO STUPID STUFF, etc.

.

I ponder the notion that Mom’s hand-penciled note and the big village sign have the same intent. Just to help us appreciate this fact, another sign might read WE ARE CONCERNED ABOUT YOUR WELFARE, SO PAY ATTENTION.

.

Or, more aggressively, DO AS WE TELL YOU OR THERE WILL BE HECK TO PAY.

.

Shall I be grateful or fearful?

.

I’ll have to think about that.

.

Almost any kindly thought can be transmogrified, once processed by a string of people who don’t know the original intent. Almost any idea can become oblique or fuzzy once unfettered.

.

So, I must remember:

.

LOCK YOUR KEYS TAKE YOUR THINGS HIDE YOUR CAR

.

Uh, did I get that right?

.

Oh, no

.

© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

.

.

Life, actually…

.

LOST MARBLES, WISE EGGS AND THOUGHTFUL PENNIES

.

Today is not book-caretaking day at my little shop of wonders. Usually I spend time re-shelving and tidying up when I enter this cathedral of books.

.

But now and then I open the big loudly-squeaking front door and begin my chores by checking on the supply of wondrous surprises and random wisdoms.

.

This is not your stereotypical bookstore, you know.

.

First off, I fetch a cylindrical key, the one that unlocks an old orange ironclad vending machine. Into this orange vending machine I insert a dozen freshly-packed plastic eggs. Each of these plastic eggs contains a number of surprises and oddities, the kind you don’t find just anywhere these days.

.

Once arranged, the eggs are loaded and locked, awaiting curious customers and kids both overgrown and under-old.

.

Shoppers who head straight for the big orange vending machine bring their quarters and try to imagine what they will come up with, once the metallic crank is turned.

.

Today’s first vended egg contains: a set of black-dotted white dice, a pink-streaked seashell, one rose-colored self-adhesive monkey sticker, an old military-insignia pin, a Happy Camper sticker, one very large red marble…want me to go on? It is amazing how much joy one can pack into one small egg.

.

Also within the egg are: a plastic leaf, a set of yellow Top-Value trading stamps from ages ago, a fortune-cookie-type strip of paper with one of my wisely witless thoughts (“Filling time is anything we do or do not do.”), and one small marble, a companion to the big one.

.

Each egg is packed with different joys. You take your random pick.

.

Cheap thrills, guaranteed to puzzle or entertain, for the down payment of two shiny quarters.

.

A few feet away, a clear jar is filled with small wisdoms, hidden comforts, unexpected joys. These scraps of paper float about, covering over the very small plastic eggs you can obtain for a measly twenty-five cents each (just Two Bits, if you are old enough to know this slang term).

.

Inside each egg in the big jar: two pennies, one small marble and one strip of paper with yet another of my wise, sometimes silly, original sayings.

.

The idea is, The two pennies represent my two cents’ worth. The marble indicates that I have not lost them all, just yet. The strip of paper is evidence that even the most random of thoughts can be preserved and meaningful if you take the extra time…

.

There are other surprises here and there throughout the Museum of Fond Memories and Reed Books, some easily findable, some secreted so that only the most observant will see them.

.

This is a way of spreading my love for words and books and child-like fun. It’s my little world and I love it when you enter and “get” it by cruising around and remaining open to the concept of laughter and giggles, swirled and stirred among books and books and books.

.

Hey, I’m just an elderly dude sharing my memories with those who need a break from the harshness that life can sometimes heap upon us.

.

I mean you no harm

.

© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

.

.

eToday is the the day that I head straight for the orange metal vending machines near the front door.