Hear Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast

https://youtu.be/yUXusDrOajA or read his story below:

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Life, actually…

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THE JOYFULLY ANNOYING HOT DOG TRUCK

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Now you just have to be patient for a moment here and listen to my true tale about THE JOYFULLY ANNOYING HOT DOG TRUCK.

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It goes like this:

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More than a couple of decades ago, my two-year-old grandson Reed received from friends of the family a beautifully crafted bright yellow purple-tired red-hubcapped red-fendered battery-operated toy HOT DOG TRUCK. 

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Now this is not just your regular run-of-the-toys-r-us hot dog truck. This hot dog truck is nine inches long and nine inches high and has clear-plastic display panels on each side which display six small hot dogs (wieners to you, weenies to us Southerners). 

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In the open front cab of the truck sits a pink-faced mustachioed guy with a blue hat, orange shirt, white pants and white gloves—not to mention blue eyes… shaped like this: + + 

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The green headlamps, bright green bell and slogans animate everything—”Happy Hot Dog” on the front hood, “Yum Yum” on the side doors, “Chili Cheese Dog 99 cents Mustard Dog 59 cents Deluxe Combo (fries and drink) 99 cents.” 

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Behind the six vertical hot dogs (no mustard) is a sign, “Happy Hot Dog Dancing for You.”

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Did I mention the fact that atop the hot dog truck is a great big hot dog (with mustard snaking across the top) that looks almost real if you squint or if you’re two years old? 

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Now this hot dog truck toy is pretty cute and quite unusual looking, but what makes it really fun and annoying is what it does. When you throw the switch on the bottom of the hot dog truck, it suddenly begins playing loud, rhythmic and unidentifiable music, and the front purple wheels begin walking (not turning) the front of the truck in time with the beat.

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The truck walks! 

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Then, after the tune goes on for a few seconds, the hot dog truck driver yells, “Hot Dog! Hot Dog!” in a clipped accent of some kind—could be Brooklyn, could be Hispanic. Part of the mystery, you know.  While he’s yelling, his upper body shakes back and forth, he rings the green bell, and the six hot dogs (three on each side) start dancing! Then, the truck repeats this routine until an annoyed adult turns it off or stomps it. 

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A most wonderfully annoying toy! 

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Well, two-year-old Reed was afraid of that hot dog truck and wouldn’t have anything to do with it, but I loved it. It was just the thing every kid dreams of having—a toy that makes you laugh while annoying all adults within hearing distance.  Even after you turn the truck off, you can still make it yell, “Hot Dog! Hot Dog!” twice by pushing a rose-colored button next to the driver, or you can make that funky music go on for a couple of seconds by pushing the violet button.

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Gosh, did I have fun with that hot dog truck! Nobody else did. 

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As we were leaving my daughter’s home after the Christmas weekend, she presented me with the bright yellow hot dog truck. “No,” I said. “This belongs to Reed!” She looked at me for a second and said, “Dad, I want you to have this toy.”

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The steel in her voice made me realize that she not only NEEDED for me to remove this toy from her home, but she knew that it would make me a lot happier than it would ever make her or Reed. 

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I grabbed this gift and drove the five hours back to Birmingham, occasionally annoying my wife and granddaughter by pushing the rose-colored button. And, once in a while, by pushing the violet button. What fun! 

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Now, the Happy Hot Dog truck sits atop my bookloft counter (I’m at least smart enough not to take it home) for me to show off to annoyed customers and annoying little kids. 

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If you know anything about other annoying toys made by the Metro Toy Company in the Philippines, please let me know. My joy may be your pain, but what’s wrong with making an old guy happy

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© 2023 A.D. by Jim Reed

Life, actually…

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LIVING WHILE STAYING ALIVE

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In the quiet pre-populated morning hours of this Down South neighborhood, a sole grocery-cart pilot rattles his descent.

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He steers downhill, relying on gravity and momentum to transport the cardboard-and-doodad-laden vehicle to the next street.

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The momentarily barren and foggy incline blends with his gray coat and gray helmet and the gray asphalt. He fades into the distance and becomes part of the landscape of the gray and muted-green village.

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I am his silent witness as I prepare to mount my metal steed and wend my way through morning errands. During this one second of time, no other member of my species is present. It is up to me to transcribe the existence of this rattletrap man so that there will be a record. A record of attention paid to a gossamer life

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A one-syllable dog barks his presence and is satisfied until the next bark.

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A neighborly neighbor materializes and beeps open trunk and door, loading schoolkids up for the rote journey. A green next-door scrub-suited med heads to work, silently nodding in my direction and receiving a return nod.

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There is just the right humid chill in the air. Not too warm, not too cool. Perfect for this miracle jiffy of activity.

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Just above me, a dispassionate cast-iron statue gazes east to the sunrise and prepares to warm its innards when new rays visit the pedestal beneath his sandals.

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I work my way around a humongous city-enforced plastic trash pail, check for leavings in the grass (dogtritus), click the doors of my dew-slicked car, and descend into its small man-capsule for a two-mile workaday journey toward commerce.

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NPR entertains me with news of the wretched and forlorn activities of nations and bully leaders, adds a dash of anecdotal humor to give me 2 1/2 seconds of hope, then re-enters the sausage machine for more, more…then asks for donations.

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I parallel park next to my parallel universe of a bookstore. I gather my sheaves and enter a daytime of bliss, a day of challenge, a day of opportunity, a day of variegated personalities and quirks.

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I have an aha! moment and realize that I am always safely at home wherever I go on this lonesome village-by-village planet.

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I realize that living within paradise requires examining carefully each passing blink…double-checking to make sure I don’t miss the pure, the simple, the beautiful, the inherent teeming lives that surround me.

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Living here is a privilege and a gift. It’s up to me to reciprocate and spread the message

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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

Listen to Jim:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/TheSolitudeoftheLongAgoDiaryKeepers.mp3

or read on…

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Life, actually…

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THE SOLITUDE OF THE LONG-AGO DIARY-KEEPERS

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The small worn leather-bound diary on my desk offers up clue after clue about its owner, who lived way back in 1919. Whether I truly understand these clues is something that cannot be determined. So, I weave my profile of the diary-keeper, unfettered by fact and evidence.

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Here it is. The title page of this century-plus old diary says much, reveals little:

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Bought at “Fowey”

Dec. 6, 1918

U.S.S.C. #352

Ray P. Rogers

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The facing blank page states:

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Belonging to Ray Rogers

U.S.N

Radioman

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The first day of the calendar, January 1, 1919:

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Stayed on boat all day

Stood 10 to 12 watch

Wrote some letters

turned in

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An action-packed day for a man at sea

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Skipping over to February 6, 1919:

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Loaded depth bombs all day on Lake View

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Skip to April 7, 1919

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At sea between Lisbon and Azores.

At last I am able to give my thoughts

full sway. My friend has been at home with my girl

and pals all day. I seem to be bursting open with

pleasant thoughts of the things I am to do when I

reach the best place in the world—home in Alabama.

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You can imagine the rest, since the actual diary is in safe but unknown hands by now.

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What intrigues me most about forgotten letters and diaries and scrapbooks is the economy of words, the shorthand thoughts and, mainly, the unwritten reflections that rest between the lines.

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As I read the words of people long gone, I begin to get an image of what they must have been like. The astounding revelation is that no matter how blustery or humble the entries are, each diarist winds up sounding like you and me.

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Just folks alone with themselves, writing down what their fingers dictate.

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The poet Rilke called all of us Solitudes.

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We diarists and poets and authors are all solitudes, no matter how many people surround us. When it comes to recording thoughts and feelings, each of us has to do it alone. Each of us has to face our own solitude as squarely as possible.

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Each of us makes the Journey hand-in-hand with ourselves

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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.