Catch Jim’s latest 3-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/1RNWbB9mFow

or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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INSPECTING FISSURES IN THE FIRMAMENT

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Today, a bunch of decades ago, I am bouncing along in a patched seat midway down the aisle of a clattering city bus.

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I am once again in my Way Back When machine.

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The city bus is in the capable hands of a driver I see every day. I am facing front so that I can ply my favorite trade, the kid-business of Watching and Recalling. I scrutinize all the small things, the things that reside between the big things we are accustomed to seeing.

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I see the back and profile of the driver as he shifts large gears and spins a groaning steering wheel. One hand shifts, the other hand empties coins into a canvas bag, making room for the next round of nickels and dimes and quarters.

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As passengers board and exit through two separate doors I look at their feet and their cuffs. Worn leather, scuffed soles, loose strings, sagging socks and drooping nylons, all these coverings have their own histories, timelines I daydream about, scenarios I imagine.

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I not only notice, I wonder. Black passengers climb through the cranked front doors, deposit their fares, then walk the gauntlet past White passengers, then settle down in back seats reserved solely for them. They later exit through the rear doors, avoiding another walk-through.

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I notice that this division of color is handled in a mannerly fashion. Whites and Blacks exchange g’mornings and reciprocate polite nods. Smiles are transacted. Politeness reigns.

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I watch as riders pull bell cords, alerting the driver to stop at the next corner. Bones creak, paper bags rustle, body fragrances leave their traces as passengers descend to street level. Passengers-to-be stand calmly at the bus stop till the exiting exiters exit, then clamber up metal steps while pulling fare coins from pocket and purse.

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The rumbling bus strains to make it up a neighborhood hill, then sighs loudly as we go into freefall down the other side.

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I grin because the little old driver is lively and quick. He must be connected to Christmas in some mysterious way, else why would this thought occur?

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The bus reminds me of a diner. In a family diner, people generally behave. Though separated by tribe and clan and misplaced tradition, they find ways to accommodate to rules and mores and regulations and cautions, most of which seem to exist without kind purpose.

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I have to grow up before I can process all of this, before I can resolve the fact that reality and poetic imagination can indeed co-exist. But mainly through the eyes of us, a handful of silent Watchers and Wonderers.

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Of course at the time I don’t have all these puzzles sorted out. Right now I am just a kid enjoying an enjoyable bus ride on a Down South day so very long ago

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(c) 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed