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Life, actually…

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THE RELATIVITY OF RELATIVES

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Where I am now is in this Deep South town, on an overcast, damp, humid evening. It’s the place to be. Even when it’s cold and wet, even when it’s dry and steamy, this is the place I want to be

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This is the place I have chosen to live. That’s because I believe that everybody around me is related to everybody else in every humid, dry, cold and steaming town in the world. We are family.

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Einstein was right. Everything is relative. What Einstein failed to go on to say is: Relativity is everything. In fact, relativity is everybody.

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We are all related in some manner, a fact at once beguiling and frustrating, at times horrifying to think, and at times provocative.

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If we are all kin, most of us don’t like to admit it except when it’s convenient.

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Lots of us humans like to go on and on about how we’ve traced our roots all the way back to Somebody Famous Way Back When. Notice the farthest-back relative is always a historical figure?

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Not only am I a descendant of that notorious being, I am also descended from the forty-first second cousin of a blacksmith’s assistant nobody ever heard of. I’d like to know more about him. Or her.

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We all share common ancestry—and you have to believe that, whether you’re an evolutionist or a religionist.

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So, if we’re all in the same family, why do we sometimes treat cousins and sisters and offspring different from neighbors, foreigners and aliens? Why is my lineage so much more interesting than yours?

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It’s not only a small world, it’s a world interwoven with genes and bloodlines and ancestries. Unfortunately, it’s also a world of many fences and few gates, a world of defensive weaponry that can become offensive at any given moment, a world of more should-have’s than can-do’s, a world where the meek, though blessed, are often oppressed simply because they do not place aggression atop their priority lists.

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Where is the good in the world, then, you ask?

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Well, it’s like everything else in the universe–the good is here, you simply have to fade the bad stuff out for a while so you can notice it.

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An audience laughing at the same humor is sharing a commonality that transcends the petty differences of the moment.

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A village elder stopping to pat a small child on the head is making a quantum leap in time and without knowing it, is by the same act massaging the cosmos with a bit of kindness.

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A fire fighter who suddenly and without thinking risks life and limb to save the life of someone who in normal situations wouldn’t seem worth the extension of a cordial greeting…is unconsciously affirming the fragile but extensive thread of hope that cobwebs the world and makes itself available at the strangest times.

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It’s out there, the goodness. It’s out there, the fact that we are all cousins.

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It’s not only Out There, it’s right here, in the Village of Everybody.

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To embrace this enormous idea, the idea that we are interlinked, you have to either take time to notice it, or at least act quickly when the kindness urge strikes. 

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Do it fast and well, so that you won’t have time to figure out why you shouldn’t be doing something so wimpy as generating an unconditional act of sweetness

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 © Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH ON TOASTED LIGHTBREAD

SLICED IN TWO

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I am inside this toasted chicken salad sandwich on lightbread sliced in two, and I am eating it as if I’ve never eaten anything as good before in my entire life.

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This lightbread is toasted just right—and it is extra special, too, because it’s been toasted in an actual industrial-sized toaster at H&W Drugs.

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At home, we don’t own a toaster, so bread has to be placed flat inside the kitchen match-lit gas oven and watched carefully till one side is light brown, then taken out and turned over—OUCH! That burns!—and browned on the other side.

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Since the oven door doesn’t have a window in it, the rusty-creaking sound it makes when you open it for a quick peek at the lightbread is all part of the ritual of toasting.

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But here, in Downtown Tuscaloosa, I’m six years old and sitting in an actual dining area at H&W Drug Store on the corner of Sixth Street and 24th Avenue, sitting here with my young mother and my older sister Barbara and younger brother Ronny and eating the best chicken salad sandwich in the world as far as I’m concerned, since we never, ever have chicken salad sandwiches at home.

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This sandwich is made from freshly-cooked chicken, chopped pickles, maybe a hint of onion and some thick pre-calorie-counter mayonnaise, the likes of which don’t seem to exist after six-year-olds grow up.

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This chicken salad sandwich is what City people eat when they are dining out, and it’s about as Uptown as I can get in the tiny town of Tuscaloosa.

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Eating this toasted chicken salad sandwich on lightbread sliced in two is true ecstasy, a reward for good behavior when the three of us kids tag along with Mother while she pays household bills and does some shopping.

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Back home, I never even think of having a chicken salad sandwich—that’s because it would seem out of place. Home is where you eat heavy catsuppy meatloaf and fried chicken and peanut butter sandwiches. H&W Drugs is where you eat chicken salad sandwiches.

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My Aunt Ann’s home is where you eat chicken and dumplings. My Aunt Georgia’s home is where you eat blackeyed peas. My Aunt Dinah’s home is where you eat collards and turnip greens.

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Each location is food-specific, and each is independent of the other.

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But they will all crowd together into one big goulash some seventy years from now, when I am writing in my Red Clay Diary and remembering not only where and when and how and why, but also what I tasted and how it felt on my tongue and how it caught between my teeth and how it burned going down and how it filled my stomach and made me sluggish and secure-feeling all at the same time.

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I’m filled with good warm and zesty-smelling food for thought, as only food for thought can be created by my Mother and Aunts and H&W Drugs in the six-year-old Tuscaloosa that some seven decades from now will be written down for you to read this instant

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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SCRAMBLING ME UP SOME SQUARES AND PADS

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“We ain’t got no scrambled eggs.”

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This statement comes straight at me from a small speaker beneath a stoic security camera. I’m in an almost-fast-food drive-through, hoping to cuddle up with a single-handed breakfast during my drive to work. I’ve just requested an order of scrambled eggs and hash browns.

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I say to the invisible basso-voiced employee, “No scrambled eggs?” The pictorial menu filling the view from my driver-side window lists “eggs” several times. I know they’ve never served poached or boiled or fried eggs.

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Basso voice repeats his ain’t-got-no statement.

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No reason to argue, I reason. I put a smile into my voice and say, “Well, what do you have?” since no alternative is being volunteered.

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“We got some squares,” the operatic tones intone. He’s gruffing up, impatient with a customer who cannot read his mind.

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I get it. This fast-foodery calls scrambled eggs Squares. Got to use the correct term or I won’t be fed this morning. I give in.

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I start over, “I’d like one order of square and one order of hash browns.”

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Something goes clickety-clickety, basso names a price, and I drive forward to my unscrambled destiny.

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Later in the week, I try another drive-through where employees are generally friendly.

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“Good morning,” I emote to the metal speaker. A surprised voice returns my greeting.

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“One order of scrambled eggs and one sausage patty.”

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“We don’t have scrambled eggs.” this pleasant voice replies. Silence. No offer of alternatives. The menu stares “eggs” at me.

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“Well, what do you have?” It’s deja-vu all over again.

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“We have egg pads.”

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My brain quickly processes this as, “We have scrambled eggs in the shape of soap bars.”

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I order, using the correct term, and all goes well.

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Yet another time, I’m doing a quick run to an appointment, pull in to a nearby drive-through, and order a small Diet Coke.

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“We don’t have small Diet Coke.”

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Silence, while I read the words Diet Coke on the large menu before me.

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“No Diet Coke?”

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Impatience again, “We have Diet Coke but we don’t have small.”

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Hard to fast-process this thought, so I re-boot to my fallback question, “What do you have?”

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“We have medium, large and extra-large Diet Coke.”

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“Er, give me the smallest you have.”

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“You want a medium?”

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“Yes,” I enthuse. “Please.”

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Clickety-clickety.

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I drive away unscathed and wiser, waxed paper cup of medium Diet Coke in hand.

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“We don’t have sliced tomatoes.”

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I am breakfasting at a sit-down diner, meeting with friends. I’ve just ordered sliced tomatoes, eggs and bacon and grits to warm up my tummy.

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This particular server looks no-nonsense and frowny, so I skip the sliced tomatoes.

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When our meals are served, my companion’s omelet is filled with fresh tomato chunks.

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My buddy grins and says, “Here are your sliced tomatoes, Jim.”

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My head spins, I laugh. If I’m ever here again, I’ll order tomato chunks.

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All I can deduce from these encounters is this: I am out of touch. I know I am out of touch, have been all these years.

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Being totally out of touch means I get to learn something new each day, as I play the game of never-quite-catching-up.

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It’s kind of like being from another planet. I just beam down and start taking notes

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Hear Jim’s podcast on youtube: https://youtu.be/z1nixFA2zUU

or read his story below:

Life, actually…

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WORDS ARE US

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As a Deep South native who loves being a Deep South native, I spend a lot of time trying my best to hold on to the rich language of this region.

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It’s not easy, some days.

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I resist being influenced by the shaky usage and  frail pronunciations slung at me by media both social and asocial.

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It’s hard to keep it in the road when an airwaves announcer says, “She was feeling LOW-gee one day.” Maybe, just maybe, the speaker meant to say “logy.” Or maybe LOW-gee is on some musical scale. Hard to tell.

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Yet another authoritative-sounding voice tries to ex-TRAPP-puh-late meaning. Probably never heard extrapolate being pronounced aloud. Or, could he be right. Could I be the ignoramus? 

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Stopping at a traffic light, I am momentarily mesmerized when a pundit rails against the TIE-ruh-nee of a political party. Tyrannical is even worse, don’t you think? A tooting horn behind me signals that the signal before me has changed to green.

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“That school may lose its uh-cre-duh-DAY-shun,” according to the news reporter. Accreditation may come once the offending institution learns to pronounce it properly.

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Am I being picky? Well, I don’t pick them, they just come at me.

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For instance, a pompous political entity wants to rule by FEE-at. Sounds ok to me, so long as he doesn’t mean fiat. If he is a hew-muh-TERR-ee-uhn (his word, not mine) he can be forgiven. But only on humanitarian terms.

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I’m not trying to be snooty here, I just prefer words and meanings to be so clear that I won’t waste time trying to close-caption people before I can grasp what they mean.

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Even signs of the times slow me down until I can interpret them.

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BRIDGE MAY ICE WHEN COLD. Do I need to be told this? It’s not likely to ice when hot.

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Why not BRIDGE MAY NOT ICE WHEN HOT.

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or

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BRIDGE MAY MOISTEN WHEN DRIZZLING

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“This thought was para-DOX-uhl to him.” Huh? Does he mean paradoxical, or has another new word emerged today on the neverending internet?

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It’s not just words that jump the tracks. Thoughts can go awry, too.

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“Jazz is America’s art form,” this promo for an upcoming documentary spouts forth in dignified and lofty language. Jazz is America’s art form? Let’s run it by our Native American historians and see what they say about that.

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And don’t forget to “help people conquer their goals.” Does that mean we need to help folks overcome or pillage their goals? Really, “help people conquer their goals?”

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I’d better bring this rant to a close before some attorney begins supp-PEEN-ing me, as one NPR announcer reported. Said lawyer might decide to call me one of those HIGH-nuss criminals. No kidding. That’s what I heard.

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Let’s just hope the Word People like me don’t rise up and commit a “series of violence” or conduct some “ree-TALLY-torry” actions against ill-informed pundits.

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To quote another bespeaker, all this means I feel “LOW-gee” when all this wordflow overstays its welcome.

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As one mouther-offer of words was heard to say, “Why don’t we look for alternative options?”

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As an educator once said, “I’m a educator.”

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And that man should know. I are an educator, too

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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