Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/bHcLz2r0OTo

and read his true story below…

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Life, actually…

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STALKING THE CELERY AND DRAFTING THE WILL

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I am in the Way Back of my early life, a kid sitting on a front step blithely munching on a celery stalk.

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This special moment exists all by itself. There is no just-a-few-minutes-ago thought, there is no dread of the next few minutes, there are no responsibilities looming.

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There is just me, there is just myself and one celery stalk.

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Will life ever get purer or sweeter?

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Maybe you had a childhood like mine. Maybe you had no childhood at all. Just in case you didn’t, I thought I would throw a few lines your way to help both of us refresh and reboot something called kidhood.

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As this humid morning settles over me I stare at the celery and prepare for the next loud crispy crunch. It is mystifying and satisfying. The chewed bits disappear into my innards, a few greenish strings catch between teeth and have to be extracted.

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I wonder whether celery feels pain. If I find out it does indeed feel the pain of being eaten, will I commence to starve to death rather than cause any more trouble? If celery and all living things have inner lives does this make us cannibals?

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Fortunately for a young and excited mind such as mine, a dozen other inquiring ideas overlay this frightening aha! moment. I am easily distracted by the next split second—a thirsty mosquito intervenes and provides a welcome distraction.

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I rub my palms dry, examine the wrinkles that appear and disappear as fingers flex. I squint at the sun and wait for the first playmate to appear on the lawn.

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Later that day, supper and chores having been appeased, I lie abed and think about the large carrot waiting for me in the refrigerator. The thoughts of pain and puzzlement do not reappear any time soon.

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Life is so good. I am in no rush to grow up. I hold on to my simplicity as long as possible. I revisit it to this day, each time I feel burdened and overloaded with the maddening varieties that the accidental universe presents to me.

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Celery is one of a thousand escapes I employ in order to hold tight to life.

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I tell myself that we the stubborn shall inherit the Earth. The stubborn among us who stave off the power of overseers, the power of those who missed childhood by that much.

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Even if we the stubborn do not inherit the Earth, we will definitely contest the will

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast at https://youtu.be/vJgw7oFgk9M

or read his comments below…

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Life, actually…

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SPEED BUMP TREKKING IN THE VILLAGE OF THE DANGED

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I’m trekking along an asphalt byway this morning, motoring forth, minding my own and everybody else’s business.

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The easy part of this slow motion adventure is the minding-my-own-business moment. A time when I ponder my fortunes and fate privately and silently. It’s a trouble-free hiatus because nobody can critique my thoughts, nobody can hear them expressed.

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Ahhh…

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There is peace in this speed bump valley right now. I can pretend that all is well. At least for a second or two.

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Then, the world outside my fuel-guzzling pod encroaches.

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A stop-sign warning places me on notice.

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The stop sign itself pops into view.

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I am suddenly rescued from inner bliss by the village and its musts and don’ts and no’s and warnings, its confusion of striped lines and indecipherable universal symbols, its mysterious illuminated yellow-then-red arrows, its grammar-challenged signs and signals.

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NO LOITERING VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED

I guess I can loiter freely.

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REMOVE MOUTH WRINKLES FROM HOME

OK. I’ll scrape them off.

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My inner quips are too silly to be shared aloud, so I thought I’d throw a few into this essay.

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Where was I?

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I am happiest when minding my own business. The anxiety begins when I slip and slide into the media-driven habit  of snarking myself into everybody else’s business.

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Three minutes into the worry-hive of the internet provides me with enough cynicism and negativity to last a month. In 180 seconds I am shown the dark side of all imaginable things. The evil that is real or imagined is gleefully screamed at me in all CAPS.

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Before I can switch off this swirling wind of useless diatribes, a few rude images stick to the corners of my mind. Dang! I hope positivity and laughter can diminish these pasty annoyances.

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I can’t get no satisfaction from the world’s gnashing and whining. I need good people expressing good thoughts in sunshine ways. It may sound wimpy to you, but a few minutes alone with a book of Fred Rogers’ simply-expressed quiet wisdom may save my day.

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Or just the sweet smile of a happily-browsing customer might renew all hope.

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Be it Fred or bookfriend, I will be so much better off when listening to the Quiet.

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Remind me to do this when I get out of sync

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s Red Clay Diary podcast here: https://youtu.be/dLYOvhTD74A

or read his entry below…

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Life, actually…

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SOUNDS OF SILENCE IN A NERVOUS TIC WORLD

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Within this bookshop lurk those elusive moments of quiet you sometimes long for in a noisy, creaky and hustling world.

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This simple fact can heal or disturb, depending on what you seek on your journey toward bliss.

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If you need to duck into our entrance to escape the madding loud, we are here to welcome you. Should nurture be sought you can trawl the bound pages of books ancient and new, sometimes finding gems of wisdom or laughter in the most unlikely volumes.

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We are here, awaiting your presence. We are always here when you need us.

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No kidding, this bookstore and all the other wise and loyal bookstores in the firmament are placid, patient, filled to the brim with the excitement and energy needed for your next “Aha!” epiphany.

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We cannot tell you exactly what you will experience within these time travel walls. That’s because whatever you experience here will be processed and tailored by your mind, your gut, your timespan, your fears, your hopes.

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By the time this newfound wisdom reveals itself to you, it will exist in your own image.

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We won’t tell you what to experience.

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But we will avidly pay attention to you as your let us know details of your adventures, as you reveal to us what has been discovered.

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We keep the sanctuary doors open. You continue your quest for revelation and wonder.

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Together we will prove to this nervous tic world that there exist things like bookshops, where mirrors called books will help you discover and embrace the timid joys that always wait deep down inside, always prepared to hop skip and jump their hopscotch playfulness into the cobwebbed corners of you, the only you that you will ever be.

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If all this sounds whimsical or silly or effete, or even scary, we guarantee you that you are safe here within these shelved walls. You can have your own internal enlightenments and wonders with no fear of reprisal or disapproval.

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Inside your head, within the bookstore, all that ever was, is or could be, is here for your discovery, for your reinvention

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast on youtube: https://youtu.be/liQToKkZgiQ

or read the original story below…

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Life, actually…

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GOING BUMPITY-BUMP THROUGH WASHBOARD DAYS

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“Shiver me timbers!”

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That’s the first shout that pops forth in my young mind when the family car encounters a sudden red-clay puddle on the Watermelon Road. It’s the late-1940s.  I am a wee lad holding my breath till fanny and backbone plop back to seat cushion.

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Such a bump! And such an adventure!

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I’ve been reading stories by Robert Louis Stevenson and Daniel Defoe. My imagination excites itself with pirate terms such as Shiver Me Timbers!

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To add to the joys of this bumpity-bump journey, next up is a wonderfully long stretch of washboard roadway.

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I hesitate to ask whether you know what a washboard is. Just enjoy the tale.

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Teeth chatter as the car vibrates awhile. Asphalt and concrete have not yet discovered the Watermelon Road. But they are soon to pounce, as commerce and a post-WWII boom loom over this Down South village.

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My timbers are indeed shivered.

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When we reach our destination, the Bethel Presbyterian Church, we bounce over a ditch and park on wild grass near other rattletraps vehicles.

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Relatives are everywhere near the church-ground picnic tables. They bring freshly-cooked foodstuffs to share in dishes covered against salivating flies.

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Kids and oldsters mingle and self-identify and laugh up a storm. When most have arrived, blessings are offered, dishes uncovered, elderly and young politely line up and begin loading plates with biscuits, okra, black-eyed peas, corn on the cob, butterbeans, dumplings, turnip greens, pickles sweet and sour, crunchy and soggy, homemade cakes and pies and cookies, hot grits and barbeque, crispy fried chicken, spicy cornbread muffins…

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And, later, there will be hand-cranked ice cream, roasted pecans, peppermint sticks, a shot glass filled with toothpicks, paper and linen napkins galore, an extra roll of toilet paper for when the church restroom runs out, handmade quilts on the ground beneath the trees, napping uncles, a loose bottle of Alka-Seltzer for those suffering from lack of impulse control, even a BC Powder tucked away by stressed-out moms.

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And those bubbly soft drinks are everywhere, from Buffalo Rock to Grapico. Everybody be merrily belching.

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After some softball tossings and lawn games, some of us will follow our elders to visit the nearby tombstones leaning over long-gone but well-recalled relatives who no longer have to worry about washboard roads and indigestion and sunburned noses.

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We tads have fleeting thoughts about reserving our own spaces for a century-from-now rest stop beneath the joyful celebrations of fun-filled relatives who still have a few sparks to ignite before giving in.

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Later, packed into the idling family car, we sweat a bit while hovering kinfolk share their last-minute tales.

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We wake from our snoozes when we hit more washboard dreams, pothole excursions, red clay puddles.

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Our shivered timbers will rest well tonight

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed