Life, actually…

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 GETTING AROUND TO READING A BOOK

 “I don’t read.”

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My brother Ronny states this most emphatically. He explains after noting the alarm on my face:  “I don’t read books. It’s boring. I fall asleep.” 

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Ronny does read. He admits that he reads trade publications, the Internet, road signs, instructions, legal notices, prescription labels, spread sheets, etc.—but to him, that doesn’t count as reading.

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Ronny’s not alone…I hear this statement in one form or another each and every week.

Hear today’s 4-minute edition of Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast: https://youtu.be/V58U4AGnzbI

or read the real story below:

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Life, actually…

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SHOO-FLY DAYS ON THE WATERMELON ROAD

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Uncle Pat McGee and his wife, Aunt Elizabeth, are about to end their Sunday afternoon visit to my little Down South childhood home on Eastwood Avenue.

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This true story takes place seventy-five years ago, but it seems like yesterday to octogenarian me.

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“Here,” my mother says to Aunt Elizabeth, “I think this is everything.”

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Mom is referring to two large brown paper bags she is handing over.

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Inside the bags are one-of-a-kind fond memories—a freshly-washed casserole dish that my aunt left after a previous visit, at that time filled with leftover chicken and dumplings, devoured by us kids in a matter of minutes.

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What else is in the bags? Well, there are aluminum serving spoons. Cotton napkins now freshly washed dried and folded by Mom (who never returns anything that hasn’t been thoroughly cleansed). There are two baked cupcakes, surprise gifts to be discovered later. There is a black-and-white snapshot of us kids cavorting in the back yard. There is a fresh tomato picked just this morning.

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And one construction-paper HELLO note crayoned by sister Barbara, the artist in the family.

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And so on.

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In these days, seventy-five years ago, there are no disposables. No toss-away plastic containers. No paper napkins, no  electric dishwashers, no automatic washing machines, no shower stalls. Only linen and hands-on scrubbing and laundering, only tub baths and terrycloth textures, only pre-air-conditioning front porch cool breezes. Only walk-by-and-friendly-wave neighbors sharing kids and pets and private-garden overstocks.

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And now and then, there is dinner-on-the-grounds.

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An annual family reunion takes place next to the Bethel Presbyterian Church on the red-dirt washboard Watermelon Road.

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Dinner on the grounds means that a covered-dish afternoon food fest is about to happen. Dozens of relatives and in-laws and out-laws and hangers-on descend from the nearby countryside, bearing freshly-grown and just-baked-from-scratch goodies to share on long wood plank tables.

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Older kids crank away at a homemade ice cream bucket, younger young’uns dodge and play under the tables and run between adult legs, watermelon seeds spurt from squeezed fingers in non-violent giggling warfare.

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Deviled eggs appear next to hot pecan pie slices and crusty fried chicken parts.

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Today is the day we are allowed to overeat and overreact.

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There are no drive-through quick-food restaurants, so all food is purchased from family grocery stores or slowly put together via family-scrawled handed-down recipe notes.

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We share the festivities with curious ants, daring daytime mosquitoes, and energetic houseflies. I can still hear Uncle Brandon McGee intoning, SHOO-FLY! STAY OFFA MY PIE!

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Thanks to the houseflies, the term Covered Dish is self-explanatory. We keep the flies away, knowing they will enjoy more than their share after dinner remnants are discarded.

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Everything is saved and protected and preserved. Food is bagged and shared and taken away to become late-night snacks or treats for house pets.

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Memories are carefully tucked away, too. They will emerge later as break-time anecdotes, playground myths, fireside narratives. Some will even appear as storybook tales, later to emerge in books or podcasts or just plain tweets and texts.

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But for this moment, seventy-five years back, all those indelible gatherings will be kept in sanctuaries of the heart. All will remain on call for times when a warm memory or sweet laughter are necessary when a good day is imperiled

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast at https://youtu.be/DiBF01N3Zgc

or read his story below…

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Life, actually…

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CHECKLIST OF THINGS TO DO ON A DO-A-LOT DAY

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Weave onto interstate, dodging any vehicles in my way.

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Go to retail store, furtively avoiding scavengers who hog the non-squeaking metal carts.

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Scan merchandise for quick bargains.

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Engage in aisle conversation with old-time friend.

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Pick up unneeded but necessary items. Try to avoid this contradiction.

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Head to library. Quickly bypass said library because it is closed for the day.

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Aim for pharmacy. Pay whatever surcharges and tariffs that are randomly added on.

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Share a little and hide the rest. I don’t know what this means exactly but I have a hunch.

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Arrive at location of air conditioning system conveniently located within my home.

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Whew! Nice and cooled down now.

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Grab fistful of cookies and alight for a moment to scan today’s daily yard-tossed newspaper.

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Grin and grimace at the alternating stories.

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Brush cookie crumbs aside and arise in time to follow the next things-to-do-today list.

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Try to convince myself that I am not an obedient and superbly-trained consumer

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/KcjpzIn3JUY

or read his notes below…

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Life, actually…

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BREAKING VIEWS

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This just in…

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I got views, you got views, all us chillun got views. Those of us approaching the edge of maturity are learning to keep shut our mouths. Who wants to hear an opposing view these days?

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But here are a couple of memories worthy of sharing, just because many of us experienced the same vicissitudes of life way back during the COVID years.

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“Hack! Ahem!” A nearby patron semi-muffles his lingering cough. The sound is so familiar. I recognize it each day as I confirm that this is one of those lingering after-symptoms of a formerly dreaded affliction.

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The post-COVID coughers sound alike to each other.

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The coughers’ coffers drain slowly as income decreases and lethargy endures.

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What is to become of the coughers and their coffers?

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In years to come will we have forgotten all this—moved on to the next crisis or distraction, or suddenly spy the elephant that was in the room all along?

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The coughing elephant.

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Are we so used to hearing these gargling sounds that we no longer notice them?

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Oh, well, it’s all part of the landscape now. On to the next peculiar tic that will insinuate itself into all the days we have left.

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Becoming accustomed to things we fear allows us to absorb, assimilate, and wend our way through all the duties and routines and funny moments that constitute the timeline.

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Best not to get too comfortable with the mostly harmful reality infractions around us. Pay attention to those breaking views, making sure the surly and dangerous ones don’t take over.

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Enough paranoia for one day?

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Now for something humanly hilarious. You can take it from here

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed