Hear Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary: https://youtu.be/KENRqo7glmk

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Life, actually…

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HOW TO MURDER AN AUTHOR

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During my Down South lifetime, I’ve met many unofficial members of the Deceased Authors Society.

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These are people who long ago abandoned their hopes of becoming writers. People whose earliest bursts of inspiration were tamped down by well-meaning tutors.

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Here’s an example:

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Remember how great the feeling was in grammar school, when your teacher gave you your first writing assignment? 

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“Write an essay called ‘What I Did During My Summer Vacation.’”

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Remember how you were first a little scared about having to write a whole page all by yourself? This takes courage.

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Then, one night before the assignment is due, you begin to write the first sentence about how much fun you had last summer.

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As you labor with each word, Number Two pencil in hand, you begin to actually FEEL the story. You re-experience joy and pain as you write,

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“My dog Brownie fell in the lake and we saved him. I got bitten by three wasps. We got to eat ice cream three times on vacation.” And so on.

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 Then, because you can feel the emotions behind each word you laboriously block-letter on lined notebook paper, you are certain the reader will feel just as strongly as you.

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You just know that lucky reader will feel the pain of the sting, smell the wet dog Brownie, experience Brownie’s rapid heart beat as you hug him close and dry him off, re-live that ice cream headache.

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You at last finish the assignment, neatly re-copied, hoping that you spelled everything correctly, though you can’t figure out how to spell Kaopectate.

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Next morning you beam as you hand in your paper, knowing that this is going to be a great year, a year in which your thoughts and adventures will be recognized and appreciated.

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What actually happens is, you get the paper back next day with RED MARKS all over it. You misspelled Kaopectate. You forgot to put a period at the end of the second sentence. You failed to indent at the first paragraph. One sentence was missing a verb. And so on.

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After you read the red marks six or seven times, you go back over everything to see if your teacher wrote anything on the front or back of the paper about your experience.

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Did the teacher feel the wasp? Did the teacher laugh and sympathize with poor, wet Brownie? Did those wasp stings make teacher recall childhood?

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No sign of anything but RED MARKS.

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It takes years to sort your feelings out, to realize you’ll never be a real author.

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And back then, the next time your teacher is about to hand out an assignment, you get a funny feeling in your stomach, vertical lines appear between your eyebrows, and you began to dread opening yourself up by writing down your joys and sorrows, just to have them ignored and, instead, RED MARKED.

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You might have wound up like other adults I meet: “Well, I don’t keep a diary or write stories. I’m just not good at writing. I could never do that!”

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As members of the Deceased Authors Society, they will never share their stories, never view their own experiences as being worthwhile.

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This story, these stories, often have happier endings. Once grown and seasoned, many of us would-be writers develop a get-out-of-writers-block-FREE attitude. We awaken to the idea that there are no longer any teachers or RED MARK advocates hovering about.

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As members of the Deceased Authors Society cast away their shackles, some of them blossom into full-speed-ahead writers who, each day, work hard to make up for lost time.

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Next time you meet an author, ask about those RED MARK memories. See what hoops they had to jump through in order to get on with it.

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In my case, I can’t stop writing. When I look back at those perceived barriers, I think, “What barriers? I don’t have time for barriers.”

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Watch out—next story starts as soon as I sharpen my Number Two pencil

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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

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Hear Jim tell his story: https://youtu.be/EgK0LFk-xvk

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Life, actually…

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MELMAC THE MAGICIAN ARISES!

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I am still a kid, just a kid, back here in the 1950s.

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During bumper car travels into the past, I can still peek at things that once were, things that once happened.

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This creates smiles and grimaces. Mainly smiles.

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I am holding in my hand a magician’s magic wand, freshly retrieved from a Christmas-gift illustrated cardboard suitcase of tricks and illusions, the Mandrake the Magician Kit.

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My first lesson as a magician is the sudden realization that merely waving this white-tipped black rod will not accomplish anything. In movies, the correct incantation and wand swoosh are all it takes to make something unscientific but wonderful happen.

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Not so in real life.

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First, I must spend hours reading the magic trick manual, then more hours practicing sleight-of-hand procedures, then–ghastly thought!–gathering bystanders to see whether I can fool them.

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In the long run these efforts diminish and I go on to other hobbies.

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But for this moment, I need to try a visual caper that will wow an audience.

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Melmac! That’s the answer! Melmac!

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Let me explain.

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One of the funniest tricks I’ve ever seen is the one in which a skillful prestidigitator manages to remove a tablecloth from a fancily-set dinner table without upsetting anything. In one fell swoop, he snatches the cloth so fast that the dishes and cutlery and glassery are not aware of the change from cotton to polished wood.

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That would be, like, crazy, man! (I obtain my enthusiastic lingo from show biz.)

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For years, one of my after-dinner chores at home is to clear the table and neatly deliver everything to the kitchen sink, where sister Barbara will do the washing.

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One night, when no-one is looking, I rehearse my act. I carefully stack every possible item up and down my outstretched arms and attempt to make just one trip from dining to washing. This requires a finely-tuned sense of balance, a lot of luck, and a lot of wobbling.

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When everything crashes to the floor in one embarrassing tumble, I get a lot of attention from the family. My only defense is that fact that I only try this caper when everything is unbreakable.

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I am saved by Melmac dishes, thick peanut-butter drinking glasses, detergent box premium stainless steel, and plastic containers.

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Everything survives but my self-esteem. This is something I won’t try again till I’m alone in the house.

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But I still dream of the tablecloth swoosh. Maybe one more attempt…

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You know the rest of the story.

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Once alone, I set the table and prepare to expertly and rapidly remove the cloth.

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I wave the wand. I flail my hands about like any good magician.

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I close my eyes, make a wish, and yank real hard

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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

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Listen to Jim’s podcast:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/wherehaveallthewarmhandsgone.mp3

or read Jim’s column below:

WHERE HAVE ALL THE WARM HANDS GONE?

I am officially out of popcorn, right in the middle of the movie. I have also slurped enough Coca Cola from a wax-coated paper cup that the public restroom at the Bama Theatre is beckoning to me.

Right here, right now, it’s about 1950 A.D. in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, and I have just held hands on purpose with an actual girl for the first time in my decade-long life. Up till now, holding hands with girls has only been a forced-march event. When being required to square dance in grammar school, I clasp all kinds of hands, some of which feel kind of nice, but the fact that I have to do it always kills the moment.

I don’t know how it happens, but Patricia White and I are sitting elbow to elbow in the dark, avidly watching a full-length movie, and suddenly we are holding hands. Holy cow! It feels funny, funny because I don’t know what to do next. Neither of us acknowledges the fact that we are holding hands. We stare straight ahead. I don’t know what she is thinking. I don’t know what she is feeling, mainly because I am too busy wondering what I am thinking and feeling.

Patricia’s hand is smaller than mine, warmer than mine, and sweat does occur. Can’t tell whether it’s my sweat or hers, but hand-holding definitely seems to involve temperature, softness and humidity.

Now I have to break the magic spell, let go of her hand, and dash to the men’s room upstairs. This is an excellent time to escape the movie, too, since there is smooching on the screen and I’d just as soon avoid watching that.

Oops! What if I am supposed to smooch with Patricia? Is this part of the hand-holding deal? I hesitate returning from the restroom, because I don’t know what is going to happen next. Up till today, I’ve spent my life attending Saturday movies with my buddy Elmo Riley or brother Ronny. Movies have almost always been about Guy Time. I’m already missing that.

Eventually, I return to my seat next to Patricia, but the magic spell has evaporated. There is no more hand-holding, but we do watch the remainder of the film and giggle unnaturally now and then. We head for the bus stop and go our separate ways, but we both know that a First-Time thing has happened in our lives. We just don’t know what to think of it.

It will be years before I learn how to smooch. I’ll get to smooching eventually, but right now, all I can do is reminisce about the Good Old Days when Bo Riley or Ronny and I would hop a bus, head for the Ritz Theatre, watch a double feature complete with two cartoons, a serial installment, and lots of action-filled previews, and eat all the popcorn and glug all the carbonated fluid we can hold.

And, now and then, I also reminisce about Patricia White’s left hand and how wonderfully perplexing it was to hold hands with a girl on purpose for the first time ever

© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

Twitter and Facebook

Catch Jim’s podcast: https://youtu.be/_ZIyrtp8nwE

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Life, actually…

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CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE

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“Your city is so beautiful.”

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This from a visitor who is Down South for the first time.

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When I first hear this oft-repeated statement, many years ago, I do a double-take. “Is he talking about my town?” I ask myself.

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I was so accustomed to activities of daily living that the essence of my surroundings had faded into oblivious routine. I failed to notice the loveliness that abounded.

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“There is so much greenery here. And the architecture is wonderful,” the stranger goes on.

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After decades of seeing my town through the eyes of pilgrims, I have become its biggest fan. I add, “Thanks for saying that. It makes me feel good that you see us at our best.”

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I do go on, “And the people here are so friendly—visitors are always remarking how safe they feel.”

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The visitor roams the store, a big smile and a look of surprise on his face.

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There are many first-timers in the shop each week. Layovers from the trains, the airlines, the interstate bus system. Layovers from people on their way to someplace else.

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Other first-timers are tourists, conventioneers, reunioneers, accidental drop-bys, lost wanderers looking for a bathroom a meal, directions.

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The most amazing first-timers are local people, people who have never ventured into the city, fearful of perceived dangers and traffic and one-way streets, forbidding parking decks, unspoken penalty-laden rules.

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Fear of becoming lost in a strange land.

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I look forward to welcoming these visitors and layovers and first-time locals. I make sure they see things through my eyes for a few seconds.

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Amazingly, the evangelizing often works. People re-visit the store to let me know their reactions.

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“You were right—the restaurants are great.”

“I love the museums. They are world-class.”

“I finally ate some grits and bar-b-q. Wow!”

“I heard some good jazz last night.”

“I want to come back and stay longer next time.”

“Got any souvenirs?”

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Yes, I focus on the good that is here. And, once visitors are given directions to the next great thing to do in the city, they are ready to see us as a really interesting region.

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Most of them will be back someday. I know, because they come to see us, to let us know that, despite all media data to the contrary, we are worth the time.

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If you look for the good in our living township, you will find it. If you look for the bad, it is there. You decide which way to go.

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Choose your own adventure.

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Y’all come

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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

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Catch Jim’s Red Clay Diary on youtube: https://youtu.be/WcS4KFdT0vc

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Life, actually…

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A-HUNTING WE WILL GO

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Just because this is a chilly winter day doesn’t mean that every day for the rest of my life will be chilly.

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In just a few weeks, temperatures will top out thermometer tubes and I will once again dream of chilly days like this.

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Here’s an entry from the Red Clay Diary, from one of those hundred-degree days in a Down South village:

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Stepping into the morning, I hit a wall of astounding heat and humidity, SPLAT! just like Wile E. Coyote slamming into a brick wall. Wow!

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I catch my breath and wade into the scorching morass like a ghost seeping through a closed door.

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How will people behave on a day like this? I wonder. How will this affect their attitudes?

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I soon know the answers.

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BEEP! The Roadwarrior in the testosterone jeep behind me taps his horn in the split second it takes the light to change and my foot to switch from brake to accelerator. In olden days my reaction would be to remove foot from pedal and slow down a bit, a simple act of aggression caused by the heat of the day but eminently satisfying to me and doubly frustrating to the jeep guy.

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Nowadays I no longer test the patience of a souped-up stranger. Folks can be testy, even dangerous.

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I simply allow him to whiz past and get on with the journey.

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I take a deep breath, smile, and resume my forward trek.

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Now I am peering into a chest-high used-book bin at the thrift store to see what’s what, when a longsleeved arm curls around me from behind to grab a volume I’m examining. I turn to see who would do such a thing and just miss observing a different arm snatching a book from the other side of the bin.

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I sigh, count to eight and a half, and decide not to protest. These are just books and those are just locusts doing what they know how to do.

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I move on to a section of the store where nobody is hovering. My fun comes from silently–and alone–reading the titles and imagining the contents.

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Later on, the building I’m about to pass sports a long staircase upon which four orange-hard-hatted men wearing orange vests sit and chat next to four orange traffic cones. They don’t notice the heat of the morning because this is what they experience all day on every hot day. They aren’t whiners like you and me. They are enjoying each other’s company.

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Then, I am at the car radio store standing by while a perspiring clerk lies on his side on the passenger seat of my vehicle, surgically probing for the top of a Flair marker that has leapt into the bowels of my cassette player and clogged the works. He’s a good sport and doesn’t mind the challenge. I’m proud of the cassette player, ordered brand-new from Japan, where it is still manufactured. It gives me pleasure whenever I drive, because I can play all those wonderful old cassettes that have piled up over the years.

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EUREKA! he shouts as he displays the culprit just fished for and caught. He doesn’t want to charge me anything, but I feel it’s worth every cent of the twenty-dollar bill I slip him. He doesn’t know what a good Samaritan he is.

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This hot evening, we are dining at a favorite  restaurant, being served by a brusque but efficient waiter who clicks into Polite as he brings the tab, making a little joke and hoping to engage us. We show our appreciation and actually do leave a nice tip.

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At the bookshop earlier in the heat of the day, I assist a customer whose face is remarkable–expressive dark eyes, soft lips, soft smile, pleasant and easy to deal with. As she prepares to leave, a shadow flickers over her countenance for just a second and some distant pain reveals itself. By the time I react, she is gone, like so many others whose sequestered lives remain out of reach. But I remember her face.

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These are just a few of the pilgrims with whom I engage or disengage.

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There are so many, so many, all with secret lives, all with journeys mysterious. I appreciate them all, I wonder about them all.

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I feel like an archivist, writing down all these wispy lives. But at least I notice. At least I try to show some respect. At least I assign A-Plus grades to each and every soul. This could be the only attention they receive today.

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Maybe you can help me archive more of these lovely sad and happy people

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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

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 Catch Jim’s newest podcast: https://youtu.be/0kgucKrvRig

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or read today’s memoir:

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Life, actually…

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THOSE THINGS YOU DO

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Love is so complicated. Too complicated to explain.

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Yet, there is nothing so simple and pure as love.

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Go figure.

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One temporarily wise man put it this way, ”To write a love letter we must begin without knowing what we intend to say, and end without knowing what we have written.” Was Jean Jacques Rousseau onto something? Or was he just as confused as I?

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This much I do know. One brief shard of wisdom cannot explain or interpret the subject of Love. It takes a lifetime of effort. For example:

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I love the sound of your snores…they remind me that you are breathing and alive and beside me in the welcoming night.

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I love the way you have full confidence in our children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. You know they will prevail and survive and make you proud and prouder each day.

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I love the way you move about the kitchen in a kind of fragrant, choreographed performance

I love the polite way you alert me to the fact that I am cluesessly smacking noisily on potato chips. You know that I have potential and that I could employ it more often.

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I love the way you remain placid in the face of impending troubles. I calm down within your composure.

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I love the way you look up at me and politely request a hug. Or two.

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I love the way you smile ear to ear when you beat me at Scrabble.

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I love the way you refuse to park in a handicapped space just in case other handicapped people need it worse than you.

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I love this life with you. What a remarkable journey

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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

Catch Jim’s youtube podcast: https://youtu.be/yUg9m0Q-YI8

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Life, actually…

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DEEP BREATHING DOWN SOUTH

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At this moment, on this semi-sunny day, my lifelong village is teeming with sound and motion and color and laughter and rage. It seems to happen all at once, this teeming of souls and cultures.

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I find that taking notes is a sort of Calling. I love memorizing snapshot moments such as this one. Later, once alone with scrapbook mind and sharpened pencil, I can review split second after split second. I can sort it out to see what might have been missed.

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Catch Jim’s youtube podcast: https://youtu.be/a1Rk8kKfaFY

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Life, actually…

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HOW TO RE-REVIEW AND RE-RENEW YOUR WORLD

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“Here we are as in olden days, happy golden days of yore…”

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The lyrics of an old Yuletide carol fade from memory, quickly replaced by a  New Year that is happening with or without my permission.

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Here it is, ready or not.

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So, what will this newborn era bring to me? What will I bring to it?

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Is it in control of me, or am I the baton-wielding conductor?

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How can the world as it is, co-exist with the world it could be?

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Enough with the soul-searching questions, away with the philosophizing. It’s time to get on with life.

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Happy New Year!

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Sometimes, stopping to smell the roses can be thorny. But sometimes, it’s a good way to re-start, re-boot, refresh, renew.

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You might even consider getting up close and allowing the roses to enjoy you.

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Let me toss a thought or two into the atmosphere. Here are some notions about gaining control of your world on your own terms:

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Sit still in a park or restaurant or window and carefully observe the first village elder who passes by. Memorize every graceful move, scrutinize all limited motions, note the assuredness, the insecurity, the constant overlap of mind and matter, the recollections that must be occurring.

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Sit still and carefully consider the fact that you are gazing through a portal to a future time. You are observing yourself as you might be some future day.

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Then, consider what suggestions you the future Elder might offer to this present-moment version of You.

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If nothing occurs, consider what you would like to say to that distant-future You.

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Be kind.

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Carefully observe the reactions of both selves.

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Close your eyes for 90 seconds and bring your selves together in peace, understanding and harmony.

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Snap!

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Some other harmless but notable things to do:

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At a public event, pretend you are about-facing in order to view the audience behind you, ignoring what’s up front. 

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The audience is the real show. Everything else is artifice.

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Carry snapshots of your parents and grandparents and brag about them every chance you get.

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Have someone read you a bedtime story.

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With eyes closed, clutch a very old book to your chest for an hour and imagine what is happening inside that volume. Then, open it up and view the pop-up world within.

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If all this unsolicited advice is too strange for you, make your own list of ways to view this new year. You are a passenger, but now and then you can occupy the driver’s seat.

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Turn the world upside-down for a day and tell me what that was like

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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

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