Listen to Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast for today: https://youtu.be/gUUTaKb0Reg

or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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A DRUM ROLL FOR ROY

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   Imagine the horror of being a victim of the bad guys in a Roy Rogers 1940s cowboy adventure movie! Remember, Roy himself never killed or hurt anybody—well, maybe a punch or two stung some bad guys into repentance—and he certainly never did anything mean-minded.

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But when Roy wasn’t around on the big black white and gray screen, bad things could happen.

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One of the scariest things I ever saw in a Roy Rogers movie: the Bad Guys, deciding to rid themselves of somebody who might snitch on them, lock this guy in an empty oil barrel and drop it into a deep lake.

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Holy Cow!

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I was suddenly inside that barrel, feeling the rusty darkness trapping me on all sides, feeling my air running out, wondering if I’d die from suffocation or from drowning, depending on whether the water engulfed me before my breathing stopped, wondering how it would feel for my lungs to burst in a mighty panic of pain and helplessness.

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It was quite an experience, vicariously dying inside that oil drum inside that Roy Rogers movie inside the Ritz Theater inside my little Down South village.

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That’s why one day, when my father brought home an empty human-size oil drum for us kids to play with, I was filled with excitement—now I could act out all my fears by using that drum, controlling that drum, conquering that drum!

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And boy, did we kids do all of the above and more.

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For years, that oil drum was my favorite toy in the back yard. One moment, the drum would become a real drum—we’d bang on the sealed end with sticks and hands and whatever else would annoy adults and neighbors, whatever would delight and excite us.

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Another moment, the drum would become a large log floating in a river of grass. Two of us kids would stand up on either end of the tipped-over drum and pretend to be roughhewn loggers—try to stay in place and force the other kid to fall to the ground first, in a fit of laughter and disorientation.

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Or the drum would become a circus act. I’d stand on it and run rapidly forward, while the drum would roll backwards. This usually lasted a few seconds at most, but in those few seconds the circus fans would be on their feet, cheering in awe of my feat.

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Then, tipping the drum over and getting inside was an entirely new experience. Somebody else would roll that drum real fast and you would hold to the insides as stiffly as possible to keep from being pummeled to death.

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Or, even when nobody was around, you could get inside and roll yourself around, having a grand contest with yourself to see how long you could last, how far you could go before blindly bumping into something or someone—preferably not a disapproving adult.

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Other times, we would play Game Hunter and Cannibals. One or two of us weaker ones would have to play the Hunter victims, being slowly boiled into a fine meal in that vertical drum, while savages danced wildly about, anxious that their food not be overcooked.

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Fortunately, we had no matches, so we were only cooked by the heat of the sun and the radiating heat from inside the drum.

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When it suddenly began raining, you could get inside that drum and tilt it vertical, closed-end up, and stay dry—and hidden, if the need was there. And if lightning were to strike, perhaps the Frankensteinian result would be to become some kind of super-strong masked hero with electrical powers.

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During more deliberative moments, the drum became an encapsulated time-machine, and you could take your own fantastic voyages inside the metal darkness all by yourself.

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Oh, it was a grand toy, that oil drum, the kind of toy I wish I could share with all little kids who are tired of toys that do everything for you, toys you lose interest in immediately or, worse still, toys that hypnotize you for hours and give you nothing in return to imagine, think about later, go to bed tired over.

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The Roy Rogers Backyard Oil Drum will never be listed as a valuable collectible in any antique guide, but it’s the  kind of collectible that’s really important—the toy that stays in your mind and your heart all the way from childhood to old age.

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Wish you had been there

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© Jim Reed 2025 A.D.

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

https://youtu.be/ywkI7pO2TsE

or read the transcript below:

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Life, actually…
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THE EASTER EGG THE EASTER WORM AND ME

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There is a glistening, squiggly brown earthworm hiding just under the Easter egg I’m grabbing from the damp red clay near my grandparents’ home in Peterson, Alabama, this bright sunny Sunday, circa 1946.

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Suddenly, my zeal in finding more treasure than cousins and siblings is placed on hold. Standing frozen, clutching the aqua-dyed hard boiled condiment in one hand and a small hand-woven basket in the other, I squint at the alien creature and wonder what it will do, now that I’ve exposed it to a larger reality.

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I am regarding the earthworm, but I wonder whether it is regarding me.

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It curls and stretches and begins burrowing into a deeper earth, so I decide that it has no interest in me and my Easter egg.

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Which end is front, which is back? How does it eat? How does it even see?

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I can’t help pondering during this extended moment. I know something special has happened, but I cannot quite express what that something special is.

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Suddenly, I become the worm and begin feeling the soft red clay sliding past my extended exterior. It is getting darker as I leave the sunshine behind and head for home. Is my wormy family waiting for me to relate my adventure? How will I explain my excitement? How will I describe objects that I cannot name?

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“Ma, this gigantic roundish object was on the ground, and I thought I would hide beneath it for a time, but suddenly these five pudgy pale pink worms came down from the sky and just missed squashing me. They lifted the big round thing up to the sky and disappeared!”

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What will Ma say when I tell her this? Will she dismiss the whole thing as something I dreamed up? Will she curl around me and comfort me till I settle down? Can she actually see in the dark?

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“Jimbo! C’mon over here and let’s count your eggs,” cousin Jerry yells. I snap out of my tiny worm world and run over to other relatives and family to continue the Easter egg hunt.

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Later that night, Mother gives me permission to eat the aqua-colored egg. As I crack and peel away the shell, the soft shiny white surface reminds me of the shiny earthworm family I’ll never get to know.

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I silently nibble on the egg and pay secret respects to the critters that surround my small world…the worms that may become fish bait, the fish that may become food, the egg itself that might have become a baby chick…and the worms that, a few decades down the road, may become the diners rather than the dined

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© Jim Reed 2025 A.D.

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Listen to Jim’s 4-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/tvspqp2oBB8

or read the transcript below:

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HOW YOU HELP ME BROWSE THE DAY

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An idle mind is a playground that in ungrammatical Latin might be called Idioticus Moronicus.

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If you are a Down South Latin scholar, try to treat me kindly. I’m just having fun here and I don’t want to shake the Universe asunder. Just want to cause a smile or a giggle.

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Anyhow, Idioticus Moronicus is a term I use to dismiss incredibly silly thoughts that arise when I am not at my most intelligent best. The way I remain semi-sane is to stay alert and swat away all things moronic.

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People wander through my life at a leisurely pace, here in the bookshop at the center of the galaxy. Each browser brings baggage that consists of such things as attitude, mood, tentative ideas, hope, despair, humor, playfulness, curiosity, tragedy, anecdotes, avoidance, anger, sunlight, willingness to be seen and heard, desire to be invisible. And so on.

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Owning a bookstore is both a spectator sport and an advanced course in species behavior. If I don’t pay close attention to each and every denizen of the aisles, I will miss something important. So I take notes, I file away observations for later contemplation. Sometimes I try to engage. Sometimes I surprise or even frighten perusers with my curiosity, my avidity. Sometimes I awaken a sleeping mind and end up having a delightful conversation.

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How a customer reacts to the bookshop tells me a sidebar story about a life unseen.

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For instance, entrances and exits are profoundly interesting.

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Here are a few reactions that browsers display as they enter the store:

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“Omigod!” Open-mouth wide eyed surprise at the plethora of overlapping objects.

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“Wow! Never seen anything like this before. I was warned.”

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“Good grief! Where did you get all this stuff?”

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“Is this a liberry?”

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“Have you read all these books?”

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“I don’t read. I’m just looking for old stuff.”

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“Look at this, Maud. Do you know what this is?” Handling a drive-in movie speaker.

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“Oh, the best book I ever read!” Picking up a copy of To Kill A Mockingbird.

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“Where did you get all this stuff?”

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“You got any books on witchcraft?”

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“I had this book when I was a kid, but I never found a copy anywhere in the country. I can’t believe you have it. Can I buy it?” All smiles, all excitement.

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You can tell that I take great pleasure in hearing these comments, in helping people who wish to be helped, in being merely available to those who do not wish to be helped. I also take pleasure in showing off special books or sharing unique facts when a customer seems open to new ideas.

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It is a random life, this bookie profession. Each moment is filled with expectation because I have no idea who or what will enter the door next. Keeps me on edge in the most exciting ways.

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I don’t need to be electronically entertained or wooed. All I have to do is unlock the door and await the next adventure

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© Jim Reed 2025 A.D.

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Catch Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast: https://youtu.be/L75U6Hh6Gzg

or read the transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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LEARNING WHEN TO BLINK

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I have lived during cold wars and hot wars, cold cuts and deep-fries, tornadoes and heat waves, during politics glorious and vicious, during hopeful times and monstrous periods, in hopefulness and despair. But if I blink at the correct  rate, I still see mostly the good, the kind, the smiles, the tendernesses. To catch most of these wonders in the act, I have to blink at just the right times.

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I call it Editing.

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I spend a lot of time editing or deleting things that are difficult to deal with. For instance, political rants. I’ve heard as many political rants as I can absorb, so I edit them or store them out of sight. Enough is enough. If I’m not selective they will take up all the space in my brain, rent-free. I need that space for things more important than politics. Such as tending to family and friends and those in need, and sweet ideas.

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Then there are the oft-repeated urban mythologies that lots of people believe and live by. Once I have vetted these mythologies one by one, I dispose of the ones that are simply that—mythologies. And I retain the ones that are actually true—not too many of these nowadays, but just enough to alert me to tread carefully through the briar patch. I don’t want to miss anything good.

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And so on and so forth.

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At times I feel that it requires a lot of effort to stay the course, to ignore the obstacles, to navigate safely the troubled waters. But I also feel that if I succumb to these unholy distractions I will become someone who is not Me.

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I keep on testing those waters to make sure I am paying attention to the kindnesses that must be initiated and perpetrated, that must sweep aside everything that endangers the good will hunting that is worthy of my time.

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Did I say it is easy, this do-gooder path I have selected for myself?

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No way.

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But Doing Good the hard way sure beats Doing Bad the easy way. Less stress, less guilt, less atonement, less glancing over my shoulder.

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And some days, the best way to be true to myself is simply to get the heck of the way and not block the view for other do-gooders. Some days it is best for me to shut my mouth and allow others to say things both profound and ridiculous.

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On those lips-pursed days I learn things, things both useful and frightening.

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Today I think I’ll do a bit of expounding aloud, then close down the preachy sounds and spend the rest of the time listening and/or avoiding.

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Avoidance can work wonders, especially when coping skills flounder and flop.

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For the time remaining, I will endure roadblocks, rants, potholes, traffic cones, icebergs, sour grapes, sour gripes, missing-crust finger foods, endless barking, newspapers hiding within thorny bushes, notices of intent, incessant car alarms, bad breath, come-ons, come-backs, sales spiels, white lies, nervous laughs, sucky mosquitoes, sulky subteens, sticky handshakes, snooty walk-bys…

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For the time remaining, I will cherish spontaneous laughter, tiny good deeds, unrequested thank-you notes, babbling babies, pretty hair following the breeze, gratuities, thank-yous, smiley smiles, jokes at no-one’s expense, good listeners, people who actually pay attention, and those who stop to gaze upward in awe…

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It is possible that the day may not be as bad as I imagine. It is possible this day will turn out to be almost like fun

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© Jim Reed 2025 A.D.