Listen to Jim’s podcast: https://youtu.be/YUL_Nw603E0 

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or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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AUTHORITARIAN BOOKIE WOWS MOM ON A SUNNY DRY DAY

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I am back in recent time, just a decade ago.

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My old Subaru car knows the trolling route so well that it actually seems to drive itself. The ancient pale and pasty bookieman sits in the driver’s seat and watches the world go by while he and the self-driving vehicle head toward just another roadside junk store, sharing high hopes of finding nice old books for customers back at the bookshop.

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I am the bookie, the car is the bookiemobile.

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Our journey is as interesting as the destination.

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By the side of the road in the western shambles of the city, I spy the gigantic WOW sign. It’s been there for decades, and it actually had an original purpose–that of selling bundles of socks for just a few cents. Now it’s a lonely WOW sign, a mileage marker on the way to a bookquest.

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The prankster side of me wants to sneak up to the sign and turn it over one night, thus affording passersby a comforting memory of MOM in our ramshackle lives. Being conscious and in the present, I don’t really need to carry out the prank. The sign is permanently affixed to my mind as a thought about MOM and all good moms past, present, future.

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 After all, I have, in addition to MOM thoughts, a need to forever replenish my trove of wonderful old volumes so that customers will always find some surprise among the plethora of packaged words in the store.

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Later, back at the shop:

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“I hear you’re an authoritarian on used books!” a customer proclaims, presenting a waxed paper package like a swaddled baby in her outstretched arms. “Can you tell me about this?” She means that she wants me to unswaddle the book and tell her whether it’s worth a fortune.

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“Well, I guess I am an authoritarian, at that,” I say, but not aloud. I do attempt to keep my smart aleck remarks to myself now and then. I am no authority on authoritarians.

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I examine the book respectfully while the customer stares in expectation. It is disbound, dusty, stained and missing pages here and there. It is what her family has kept as an heirloom for a century. Now it has become an unread artifact that takes up space. The current generation waits for a rainy day when they can cash in.

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My task is to let this customer down easily but share a reality check at the same time.

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I turn the tattered pages, smile, and remark, “This is a nice book, well worth reading. Unfortunately, people who might want to purchase it will only accept it if it looks brand-new and is in almost perfect condition.”

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“But this is an old book…old books don’t look new,” she protests.

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I escort her to a display case and show her my copy of this exact book. It looks new because it has been well tended and respected all these years.

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She gets the point. “Well, I guess somebody didn’t take care of this one.” She laughs and thanks me for taking the time to advise her, free of charge. I suggest the family retain and display the book out of respect for ancestors.

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I’m done with travels for the day and here I am at the bookshop, arranging orphans and adoptees and fosters, displaying them so that perhaps customers will take them home and give them a little loving.

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The morning’s journey was worthwhile. I have additional company on the shelves. My MOM is safely ensconced in memory, a memory of her love for books and her love for a son who could not keep his hands off books or his mind off the beauty of words and stories.

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Can’t wait till the old junker and I head out once again on our periodic field trips to scan the countryside and dig for treasure for the sheer satisfaction of it

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast on youtube: https://youtu.be/lnIK8aO2Dc8

or read his manuscript below:

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Life, actually…

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NOTES WHILE WAITING IN WAITING ROOMS

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Waiting Room One: I sit here alone in a room with no mirrors. No windows. No back door. No skylight. No emergency exit. How can I make this long wait worthwhile? After all, I am not a lifeless mannequin. Yet.

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If I am to find pleasure within this cage, it will have to come from checking out the unnoticeables. When I close my eyes, what do I hear? The thunder rumble of an air conditioning system. Hallway laughter. Pity-pat of rubber-soled shoes. Muffled doctor-to-patient explanations in the adjacent room.

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Waiting Room Two: This public room is littered with waiters—those who obediently await The Verdict. Oddly, no-one is texting or otherwise tinkering with the electronic universe. Some are dozing, others are riffling through dogeared magazines. Unseen voices interact behind a glass booth.

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Waiting Room Three: Another room of no windows or mirrors. Test results are reported. Bedside manner is just as important as good news. Congenial experts count.

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On the way home I pass a glass window leaning against a building. A window with no rooms?

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Waiting Room Four: There is humor to be found. I am sitting beneath a dangling TV set. This means all eyes are staring in my direction. A media interview above me features a whiny celebrity who craves even more attention. The waiting patients slouch and gaze up or phone-speak, or just swipe about, considering their consumer-spending capabilities. Eventually, there will be doctors.

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As I make my escape, I warmly greet people just to surprise them with kindness. They smile despite their circumstances.

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There will be more Waiting Rooms in my life. Stay tuned

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Catch Jim’s 4-minute podcast on Youtube: https://youtu.be/0yyMPteP56Y

or read the transcript below…

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Life, actually…

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CLOUD-WRANGLING IN DOWN-SOUTH HEAVENS

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Right this minute, it is seventy-five years ago. The Village Elder is recalling a day from his Down South childhood. In his clear and present memory, this day of yore is worthy of remembrance.

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Jimmy Three is the nickname of the long-ago version of himself. And for a few precious moments, Jimmy Three is suspended, floating somewhere between the core of the planet and the faraway skies. He is alone but seldom lonely.

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Lying flat on his back in a bed of clover and bustling insects, Jimmy Three wonders about things. He is at his best when wondering about wonders. Right now, he is awestruck by the rolling multi-grayed clouds.

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One cloud casts an in-flight shadow over him, then speeds away. Another cloud crosses paths with a companion, melds with it, recombines into a doubled entity that retains no memory of earlier seconds, when they were twins.

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Jimmy Three raises his pointing finger and begins moving the billowed fluffy shapes. He molds them into pirates, then into puppies, then into scenes from Bible stories. He plays with the skies. He begins to suspect that the clouds in turn are playing with him.

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As the shades and textures of the clouds gracefully shapeshift themselves, Jimmy Three lowers his arm, angel-spreads his body, embraces the heavens and hands himself over to them.

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He discovers that allowing the firmament to manipulate him is just as fun as re-animating that high-up deep-blue-and-shaded world. A world above him that is so much more vast than the mere neighborhood in which he dwells. So much larger than his tiny planet.

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Why oh why, wonders the present-day Elder…why oh why do I remember this long-past moment with such happiness, such peace?

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Jimmy Three projects himself into the future and addresses the question.

The Elder leans forward, turning his good ear to the apparition.

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“I’ll always remember you if you’ll always remember me,” Jimmy Three says.

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The Elder leans back, amazed but not surprised. He sort of always knew that all the ages he ever lived were still  deep inside, are still deep inside, awaiting duty, waiting to tend to his needs. Just as Jimmy Three somehow knows that the amazing old dude he will become, will be there to mend his wounds, salve his scrapes, keep him alive and well.

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The octogenarian and his childhood self stroll side by side to this day, each knowing they will journey together until some great embracing moment pleasantly surprises them with additional never-ending journeys

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 4-minute podcast on Youtube:  https://youtu.be/E0qfacXrnzg

or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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FORWARD TO THE PAST

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Doing time Down South. That’s what you and I are equally good at. We are doing time.

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Traveling forward through time is so easy. All I have to do is keep breathing and watch out for meteorites. I can time-travel for decades with very little effort.

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Jumping ahead in time, into unknown futures, is almost as easy. I can grab a book that takes place day after tomorrow and immerse my imagination into a possibility or two. Leaping forward is not quite as realistic as living one day at a time, but it does excite the imagination, it does take me away from humdrum now and then. And sometimes humdrum requires distraction, just to keep the necessary balances.

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Traveling backward in time is exciting, too. In fact, I have learned that living in the past is a safe and secure exercise. The Past is the safest place to be, especially for avoidance-experts like myself.

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Here at my bookshop, my Museum of Fond Memories, my Cathedral of Books…here, I can dip into any past that ever was. Or I can dip into imagined pasts that never were. What choices I can make!

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For instance, the first object I see this morning is a 1951 high school yearbook. This yearbook was incredibly important to the student who owned it in 1951.

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As high school experiences faded into the past, as 1952 encroached, the 1951 yearbook remained solid proof that youth and experience and experimentation once existed. As life edged forward, piling year upon year, at least that 1951 yearbook collected dust and preserved memories as best it could.

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Every decade or so, it could be dusted off, pages could be flipped, dedications and signatures and times good and bad could be reconsidered.

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And, at last, some time after all memory is spent, this 1951 yearbook is discarded by survivors and winds up in a thrift bin on its way to perdition. It is only here, in my hands, because I rescued it.

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Thumbing through its interior, I spend time appreciating the life of the previous owner. I wonder at the fresh young faces reflecting dreams and aspirations and fears and hope. I wonder how many of those reflections came true, how many were managed, how many directions their paths took them. How did they wind up?

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Even if I could manage to assemble a lifetime yearbook for myself, for you, will there always come a time when some future person who never knew me will make a decision? Dumpster or thrift store? A puff of discarded memory or a chance for yet another life in the hands of a browsing yearbook-lover?

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All those long-ago hopeful lives. It’s up to a handful of us to honor them or forget them. Our choice is ready to be made

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 © 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

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