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Life, actually…

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FLITTY PRISMS AND TWIRLY CHIMES

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The joyride celebrations of an Alabama family Thanksgiving are receding in memory fond.

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The looming prospect of family Christmas gatherings creates expectations most pleasant.

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As chaotic as life can sometimes be, celebrations both tiny and huge propel us into reluctantly thinking positive thoughts. Thoughts about what pleasures are still lurking if we stop long enough to pay attention.

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What makes me continue having hope here in this Down South town?

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Well, if I put aside all snarky and fearful and mean-spirited thoughts about the messy past and murky future, I can occasionally make room for small wisdoms, hidden comforts, unexpected joys.

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It doesn’t take more than a few seconds to startle myself alert. Alert to the goodness that endures if attention is paid.

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Fairy-like prismatic colors dance along the walls and ceiling of our ancient home. No kidding. Now and then these jittery twinkly lights force me to stop and find a small portal to the past.

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Daughter Margaret gifted us with this solar-powered spinning prism many years ago. It has been here so long we tend to forget its presence. But on a sunny day the dangling trinket comes to life and gently reminds us of the thousand and one pleasures caused by Margaret’s presence in our lives.

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And on cloudy, windy days we are startled into awareness of another family gift. Sprite-like tinkling music spreads itself throughout the house. Porch chimes once given us by daughter Jeannie reawaken our memories of loving good times, wise and healing laughter.

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Flitty prisms and twirly chimes have lives of their own, powered by absentees Margaret and Jeannie.

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Powered by the singular and persistent nurturing that can be generated by family bonds and family ties.

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Powered by our most human desire to place the tribulations of life on hold long enough to face the reality of unconditional love

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© 2022 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Life, actually…

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THE THANKSGIVING DOGS OF VERBENA, ALABAMA

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Field of dogs.

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We’re in the deep countryside, walking in their domain,

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But they only welcome us

with tongues out and energetic pantings.

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These are fields any childhood would find a way to enjoy.

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Tall grass, fluffy dandelion wisps,

long cattails to use as gentle weapons.

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No alligators in sight.

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We trudge toward a drought-reduced pond

to see what was underwater, hidden for so long.

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The cool air matches the gray sky.

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The dried and crackling weeds match the cool air and the gray sky.

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We think about the century as if it holds some special

quality that previous and future centuries cannot hold.

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But the centuries are just made-up make-believe

centuries that change with each civilization’s editing.

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The crunch of dried plants under our invading soles

is the sound of the afternoon.

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The rustle of leaves brushing against the low-slung belly

of an amazingly short-legged dog is all we hear.

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The giggling of children waging wars with cattails is all we hear.

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No jets fly overhead,

or underfoot, for that matter.

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No interstate rumblings in the distance.

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Just giggles and crunchings and pitter patter of little dog paws and deep breaths taken down into tired citified lungs.

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We walk the feast off and live at the singular moment.

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The drive back to the city is a droning eventless monotone.

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Home free! is what we shout

when our feet touch our old wooden porch,

on the way to the safety of this particular century

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–Jim Reed © 2022 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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LONG TIME AGO SEEMS LIKE YESTERDAY

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A mere 65 years ago, I am speeding West on 15th Street atop a thin-wheeled second-hand chipped-paint bicycle. My mission is to get to the Downtown county library and back in time for family supper on Eastwood Avenue.

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Let me back up here and caulk in a few missing details.

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“Speeding” means the bicycle wobbles along at maybe three miles per hour. But to the oh-so-young me, the breeze I’m making feels like racing the wind.

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Traveling West on 15th means jumping curbs. Squiggling over multiple railroad tracks. Bumping around sidewalk-less mounds of clay and grass and dust. Running red lights in order to maintain forward momentum.

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“Back in time for family supper” means arriving home just as my stomach starts to grumble. I don’t have a timepiece. And since I’m safely shrouded within my hometown, I don’t need directions in order to find library or bungalow. I don’t need a compass to tell me which way is West.

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These are things I know because of where I’ve lived on Earth the past dozen or so years.

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And the library. Up till now, the library is my cathedral of books. I know every inch of it.

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Finally I screech to a halt (at least I pretend to screech). Padlock my bike to a bush (as if anyone would ever steal such a creaky piece of machinery). Tuck my shirttail in (this is a library, you know). Race up the stairs of a re-purposed Victorian house where everything worth reading abounds.

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I silently tiptoe past the main desk. Past stern no-eye-contact guardians who stamp and process volumes and volumes of inert knowledge and facts.

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I don’t need no stinkin’ eye contact to enjoy myself in this wonderland. I just need my friends the books. My friends the maps. My friends the periodicals. My friend the Silence.

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I scan past titled spines, rows of beckoning subjects. Past the gaps between, where temporary adoptions have occurred.

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And suddenly it dawns upon me that I have just about completed my so-far-lifelong project: I have read and cherished every book that I care to read and cherish.

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There is nothing new on the shelves between the bookends.

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I still have time to re-visit old favorites. I brush fingers past them one more time. I inhale the unique fragrance of all future and past book cathedrals.

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I check out one last title to take home. To read flashlit under quilts tonight.

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I ponder future prospects.

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As I pedal eastward toward home for a round of corn-on-the-cob-and-cornbread vittles, I pass by the strip mall near Eastwood Park. Wait—the  drugstore has rotating metal racks filled with paperback books. Magazines abound nearby.

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Instead of borrowing and returning books, maybe I can purchase the books I desire! They are only 25 cents and 35 cents each. And the cover art is dynamic and compelling. And I can keep rather than sadly part with them.

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But I have no job. Maybe an occasional allowance. Where will I find the cash needed to start feeding my booklust?

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Hmmm…

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I know! Mother provides lunch money and bus fare most weeks.

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I think. Why eat cafeteria food when I can purchase Food for Thought? Why ride a bus to class when I can walk or bike?

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I hatch a devious plot

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.