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Life, actually…

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This happened long ago. But then, didn’t just about everything?

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COLD CASE GHOST RIDERS

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 What if the creator of the universe got claustrophobia and suddenly and inexplicably the universe simply wasn’t roomy enough?

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And what if said creator at once realized that by its very definition the universe was everything it could ever be and as big as it could ever get?

.

And what if the creator had to really start thinking about whether infinite power and wisdom were infinite and powerful only within the universe’s own boundaries and rules?

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That’s the kind of thinking you do when you are hermetically sealed inside a cold case. A cold case containing you alone.

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A windowless unfriendly metallic air-conditioned coffin, a coffin so snug that your arms folded across your chest press against the sides of the coffin and allow you no wiggle room.

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The faceless people who placed you inside this cold and dry coffin have warned you not to move a muscle because if you move a muscle you must stay inside the coffin twice as long.

.

Twice as long as eternity is about as perplexing as the idea of a creator getting claustrophobia and not being able to do anything about it without breaking finely tailored rules.

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In order to survive this icy coffin for eternity you have to figure out what to do with your mind because it is your mind that won’t leave you alone, it is your mind that keeps reminding you that you are unique among heavy-breathing animals only because you can imagine what is not and can rethink your own death a thousand times a minute before it ever occurs, thus making your own death potentially anti-climactic because of all that dress-rehearsing your mind has been doing for so long.

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And even that isn’t true because you somehow know that no matter how many times you die before dying you’ll find death as fresh and as annoying and as terrifying when it finally comes as it has been all those years you have been rehearsing for it.

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So you try to use your pesky brain against itself—that is, you try to get it to think about pleasant things you dream up, since your mind insists on thinking nonstop anyhow.

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For at least for 90 seconds you get some relief because you call up the anecdote your big sister related to you just the day before all this started happening.

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Sister Barbara was lying there some months back just like you are now, inside an air-conditioned coffin hermetically sealed against the staff members of the medical facility who were drinking paper-cupped Cokes and staring right through you when you walked toward the coffin just a while ago.

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In the city where she was receiving her MRI she was at least offered something I was not offered. She could have any kind of music she wanted to hear piped into the coffin as she lay there for a small eternity.

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She elected “her kind” of music and lo and behold, just as she was preparing herself for the thousand deaths of isolation, just as she was trying to adjust to the idea of being cut off from her entire outside life, the song “Ghost Riders in the Sky” started playing and she started giggling and a stern disembodied voice told her through a cold speaker that she must try to contain herself.

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But she got through the experience.

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I could only pretend I was hearing “Ghost Riders in the Sky” since the people outside my particular coffin were making no noise at all and here I was with no ghost riders and trying mightily not to cough for fear of being punished with a longer stay inside the coldest case I’ve never imagined.

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And you know, I was kind of beginning to identify with a claustrophobic creator who just got too big for the universe…or did the universe get too small?

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The ending of this story is kind of pathetic since I never did get out of that coffin and the only comfort I have received from that experience is the knowledge that creators, too, can be trapped forever in a universe too small to contain all the kindnesses we can imagine, too small because in between the kindnesses is the detritus of the universe, the bad stuff.

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I just disregard the idea that all those left-over ghost riders are floating out there between the kindnesses.

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All this is just fine, so long as the kindnesses distract us from that other stuff

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© 2022 A.D. Jim Reed

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Life, actually…

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SOMEDAY UPON A TIME I SHALL WRITE MY STORY 

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The laughing storyteller hovers over me in the bookshop, making it hard to ignore him while I go about daily duties of book commerce and customer relations.

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“That’s a funny story. Are you writing all these stories down?” I ask.

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“No, everybody says I should, but I haven’t gotten around to it,” he replies.

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Trying to be helpful, I throw in a few unsolicited suggestions, hoping one of them will find traction with this serial teller of tales.

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“Do you keep a diary or a journal?”

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“You know, I should. But that reminds me of the time I got stuck on Hurricane Creek with a rattlesnake…” He starts another story, wrapped up in the excitement of re-experiencing long-ago life.

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He brushes off suggestions like no-see-ums.

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“You know, one thing that works sometimes is just jotting down notes during the day as you recall these anecdotes…so you’ll have some reminders to guide you once you start writing.”

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He is distracted by a Lewis Grizzard book and sort of hears me.

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“Yes, I sure have some stories to tell…like the time my buddy and I got caught stealing watermelons in the middle of the night…”

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He goes on. He deflects any ideas about how to record these stories for future generations. They really are good, but I can see after a while that they will evaporate as soon as he does, leaving no record of a born minstrel’s life adventures.

.

I love old books and old stories. I live in constant fear that both books and stories will one day simply not be there for you and me to access. I worry that all we will have as proof of life once lived is a plethora of streamed manufactured imaginings, recorded and monetized and available by subscription only.

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And they won’t even be true and actual stories—just some formulaic regurgitated plotline gibberish designed to pretend reality.

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Will we even know the difference? Will we be aware of what is missing?

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Am I a worrier, or what

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© 2022 A.D. Jim Reed

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Life, actually…

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BEARDED LADY

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It’s kind of nice, being invited to write an introduction to another author’s book.

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I used to think that only famous writers who belonged to some kind of in-group did that kind of thing. But it’s good to be wrong at times.

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So, many years ago, author Helen Bunkin produced  a volume of essays, poems and photographs on one subject and one subject only: bearded men, men with beards.

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No kidding!

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Each picture depicts a randomly selected bearded man looking out from his bushy recesses into the world. The reader gets to make a decision about each picture, based on what’s hot and what’s not about the growth of facial multistubbles.

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Right before press time, Helen added my introduction and photograph. Here’s what I said, roughly:

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The first time I met Helen Bunkin, I asked her whether her collection of photographs included any women. She, having only known me for a half hour, looked puzzled and pleasant and replied, “No, they’re all men.”

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“No bearded ladies, then?” I queried. I think that by this time she was beginning to relax and enjoy my lame joke.

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“No bearded ladies,” she repeated.

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After all, I had not yet looked at her photographs. At last, she stopped teasing me and opened her portfolio. My amazement began.

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There were no bearded ladies. But in the place of bearded ladies, Helen showed me pictures of men with beards.

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All sorts of men.

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Big men, slender men, light pink men, black men, tanned men, pale men, sallow men, happy men, strained men, puzzled men, joyful men, brown men, bold-featured men, gossamer men…men who looked like they were enjoying the attention Helen was giving them.

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After all, when was the last time anybody had ever stopped them and paid attention just because they hadn’t been cleanshaven in a month of Sundays?

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Each of these men had made a conscious decision at some point, to ignore the electric-shaver ads, the razor-blade ads, the commercials urging them to look sleek and shiny.

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What made them do it? What made them decide to let the grass grow wild enough to trim later or not to trim later?

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To trim or not to trim, that is the daily challenge.

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In my own case, I woke up one morning after leaving the corporate world of bosses and bosses of bosses, and said to myself, “Self, who are you shaving for, every morning for thousands of mornings on end?” Self answered back, “You are shaving for bosses and bosses of bosses, and, Glory Be, you no longer suffer the presence of bosses and bosses of bosses.”

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The reason for shaving was far gone. It had disappeared into the wind just as soon as I leapt from the cold and humorless vehicle of boss-dom and fell parachuteless into the soft void of Being My Own Boss.

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I never had to worry about pleasing a boss again!

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One more thing had to be cleared away, though. What in the world would my wife think about newfound stubble when it appeared upon my chin? Only way to find out was to do it, so I picked a week when she would be away on business, and I stopped shaving. I figured that, if she did not approve of the beard, I would just remove it and get on with being the Familiar Me.

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Good grief, at the time I saved!

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Lordy, why in the world hadn’t I done this eons ago? I had more time to do things or not do things as I so pleased, and I didn’t have to worry about walking around with pieces of tissue stuck to my face, where the razor had misbehaved. After forty years of shaving, I still had not learned how not to cut myself.

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PS:  My wife loved it. I was cleared for landing my fingers in thick salt and pepper bristle whenever I pleased.

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So, where was I? I know this one thing well: each bearded stranger in Helen’s book has his own story to tell, his own spin about why he doesn’t show off his cheeks and jowls and pocks and double chins to the world at large.

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Helen’s pictures make you want to know these guys, hear their stories, know their woes and whimsies. Turn the pages. Get to know these half-hidden faces.

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Even though the book doesn’t have a bearded lady, it does have a Beard Lady. The late Helen Bunkin is hereby remembered as the Beard Lady who showed many mysterious half-faced men to a world that usually pays attention only to the obvious.

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Whenever I see a copy of Beards Beards Beards by Helen Bunkin I recall her fascination.

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Her book makes you pay attention to the hidden, the not-quite-obvious, in each of us bearded guys.

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Thanks for the memory, Helen, wherever you are

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© 2022 A.D. Jim Reed

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Life, actually…some forty years ago when the world first blossomed…

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THE GREAT WHITE MOBY-LESABRE

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The front driver seat is bent both backwards and sideways. It is askew because I am in the habit of driving with the left hand, my right arm draped over the back of the front passenger seat. You know—like cool and dreamy.

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Over a period of time, such unnatural pressure transforms the back-rest, thus guaranteeing that nobody else wants to drive the car in such a peculiar position.

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Nobody in the family wants to drive the car anyhow, since it is very large, very white, very dusty on the outside. I have washed it perhaps three or four times in ten years.

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It is a 1979 Buick LeSabre four-door and looks rather like Moby-Dick on wheels, according to my kids.

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It has faded red cloth upholstery and black wall tires and a decidedly third-world look.

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As I drive, the car tends to sway gently back and forth over potholes and speed bumps, kind of like a boat. I can’t hear anything outside on the road when the windows are closed, so I drive in a soundproofed booth.

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As I cruise I barely have the sense of driving since the car has automatic transmission power steering power brakes power transmission and the like.

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I love this car. Somewhere along the way my wife gives me something I’ve wanted for years: a car tape deck that not only plays cassette tapes, but records them, too.

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So, I can tool around the countryside dictating to the tape machine, recording my Red Clay diaries, singing at the bottom of my lungs into the microphone or screaming at the top of my lungs when I feel I can’t get away with screaming at anyone or anything else.

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And I can enjoy my very own music.

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It is grand self-therapy, driving this monster car and talking to myself,  afterwards dating and labeling the tapes so that I can someday transcribe and share them with you, whoever you may be.

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One day, Moby-LeSabre is stolen from in front of my home, and I never see that great white vehicle again.

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Gone is the comfort of a portable sound booth, gone the electronic voice- reproducing machine. Gone is my private little portable universe.

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I don’t spend too much time feeling sorry for myself, but I still dream of the day I can afford to purchase a 1957 Lincoln Continental or one of those other old restored cars that are tons heavier and inches longer than even Moby-LeSabre.

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Wonder if they will still be manufacturing audio cassette recorders when that day comes

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© 2022 A.D. Jim Reed

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Life, actually…

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MAKE YOUR DAY BETTER

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1. Never sniff your armpits in public.
2. Never sniff other people’s armpits in public.
3. Always wear shoes within Lego playrooms.
4. Never say “No problem.” Ever.
5. When you catch yourself frowning, smile broadly and hold on to it.
6. Remember, when someone is railing on you it means they are in pain, pain that you cannot readily identify. Don’t tell them you know they are in pain. Just listen intensely.
7. Come to a full stop at all stop signs. Assume that a law enforcement official is watching. Use wisely the time and money you save.
8. Limit yourself to two daily whines.
9. Never stare at cleavage.
10. Always say Good Morning or G’day.
11. Hold open the door for the person behind you. Don’t expect thanks but appreciate it when it happens.
12. Always thank the person who holds the door for you.
13. Leave the seat and lid down. Always.
14. When entering someone’s kitchen always ask, “How can I help?”
15. Dance first with the most ignored person in the room.
16. Never say “No thanks, I don’t drink,” when offered a drink. Simply smile and say “No thanks.”
17. Don’t proclaim that you are on a diet. Simply don’t eat what you do not wish to eat.
18. When trapped in an offensive political conversation back away and say, “Got to leave. I left my baby on the bus,” or something equally improvised. Do your part to avoid escalation.
19. If someone hands you a drink without asking, accept it. You can politely hold onto it without drinking.
20. Never assume you know the gender of a stranger. Pick your words carefully and politely.
21. Check the burners when you close the kitchen for the day. Always.
22. Tip generously except when asked for a tip.
23. When racing to a meeting or rendezvous always allot getting-lost time.
24. Show up two minutes early. Every time. Those who are tardy do not get fruit cup.
25. Ask permission before examining someone’s tattoo or tee-shirt slogan.
26. Do not tap dance on shag carpeting.
27. Don’t tiptoe in high heels.
28. Proudly say “It’s a pleasure for you to meet me,” for the 864^th time. Everyone else lost count long ago.
29. Ask permission prior to hugging.
30. Do not mock or tease others’ flatulence. Your turn will come.
31. Do not honk. The life you save may be yours.
32. Smile and wave. It counts.
33. Suppress your belch.
34. Behave as if you are being filmed and recorded.
35. Don’t roll your eyes. People can hear.
36. Allow your good feelings to emerge. Make them show.
37. Crank down your cranky.
38. Leave a good impression. People remember how you make them feel.
39. Only use four-letter words that do no harm, such as grin, help, love, give, heal, hold, save, ease, boon, play, kiss, nice, earn…
40. Notice who you hang out with. First-class people associate with first-class people. Second-class people associate with third-class people.
41. Do nice unto others as you would have them do nice unto you.
42. Pay attention to paranoid people. Sometimes the sky really is falling.

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These 42 ideas get me through the day. What gets you through the day?

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I hope you have the greatest of all possible days

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Catch Jim’s podcasts on youtube: https://youtu.be/6WGsPQbUm2w

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Life, actually…

.

THE ROTC UNIFORMED CUSHMAN TIME TRAVELLER LANDS IN PETERSON

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If I close my eyes, I am suddenly transported back in time more years ago than you have been alive.

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It is the early 1960s…

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I have a busy if not full life in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. As a student at the University, I keep myself occupied by not studying, by being an on-air announcer at several local radio stations, by attending class in order to catch naps.

.

One class I am required to attend twice a week in full green wool uniform is the U.S.-run military program for male students called ROTC.

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Part of the reward for mandatory service in ROTC is the fact that the Army, needing soldiers for the neverending war in  Vietnam, has the theory that each of us will fall in love with the idea of giving up parties and romance and the good life to go to jungles far away, teaching enemies to do right.

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That is why I am wearing a full Army outfit after my classes are over. That is why, this day, I hop aboard my tattered Cushman motor scooter and drive as far away from the campus as possible, as fast as possible, to create a breeze on this 80-degree afternoon.

.

The duct-taped vehicle is my only means of physical escape from T-Town.

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I head for the nearby tiny town of Peterson because I know how to get there. And because that’s where my grandfather’s general store is located.

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I pull up next to the Sinclair pumps, park the scooter out of harm’s way, take a look at Grandmother Effie’s flowers in the front yard, open the Miss Sunbeam Bread-bedecked screen door, and enter the store.

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Store and home are physically connected, and my grandparents’ lives are played out in a situation where they are never away from home, never away from work.

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Uncle Brandon is down on the concrete floor, constructing shelving out of cut strips of old Coca-Cola signs.

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Uncle Brandon looks like a cross between Stan Laurel and Will Rogers and is as funny as both of them.

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We palaver a bit and I go looking for Grandfather Robert. “Hey, Granddaddy, how are you?”

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We shake hands instead of hugging, since I am almost grown up now.

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“Doing OK,” he replies, monosylabically answering my questions about life, liberty and the pursuit of Grapico drinks.

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I wander around, inhaling the rich aroma of mildew, kerosene, bubble gum, ripe vegetables and leather combined with the powerful fragrance of my grandfather’s ever-present cigar.

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I observe off-shift coal miners stopping by for a drink and a chaw on their way home.

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“Gimme a Dope,” one of them smiles, slipping a dime onto the counter and grabbing a bag of Tom’s Toasted Peanuts which he carefully pours down the neck of a Coca-Cola bottle. Coke is Dope in these rural parts.

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I salivate at the thought of that heavy salt combining with the cane sugar fizz and making an unforgettable snack.

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I’ve made my visit. Shown off my ROTC uniform. Bragged about my radio jobs. Gossiped a bit. Now it’s time to head west toward Northport for my evening duties at WNPT.

.

I am refreshed. I’ve seen my grandparents and uncle as well as postmistress Aunt Gladys, I’ve sniffed the memories of my early childhood. I am refreshed and energized.

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On the highway, I wend my way back to responsibilities and the feeling of purpose that to this day I get out of going to work each day.

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I want to remain in Peterson and live the quiet life. I want to be an on-air star and impress people with my talent. I want to toss this cotton-pickin’ wool uniform and hide from the draft, I yearn to date coeds, laugh with my younger siblings Tim, Rosi and Ronny, hug my mother, talk to older sister Barbara, try to get through to my stoic dad, lie abed late at night and listen to reel-to-reel tapes of Bob and Ray shows, fall asleep to the jazz emanating from WWL in New Orleans.

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All these generations later, I haven’t changed. I still want to be everywhere at once, every time at once. I still am happy at end of day in my solitude, floating in memories most textured and pleasing

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Listen to Jim’s Podcast:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/therotcuniformedcushmantimetraveller.mp3

or read his story above.

Life, actually…

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TIPTOEING THROUGH THE TROUBLES

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Now and then I find the energy and inner fibre required to hoist an invisible bat. You know, the bat it takes to shoo away all those negative rants that keep hurling themselves at me.

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My best defense against loud and squeaky pessimism in these worrisome times is…humor.

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Yep, humor.

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I’ve tried just about everything else in this quest for peace of mind, quietude of attitude, calming of the stormy seas.

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Yelling back gets me nowhere when expert and practiced yellers abound.

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Logical rhetoric bounces off the negative screeds of doomsayers.

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Scientific evidence goes nowhere when wrestling words with a true believer.

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Even screaming into a pillow can only comfort me for so long.

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So, in order to get through the day, in order to cling to sanity and goodwill, in order to stay the course of a day worth living…I reboot my attitude with a dash of humor.

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BOTOX FOR PRUNES

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This seems like an idea worth pursuing. What could be more important in the middle of a political argument? I just step back silently and contemplate wrinkled prunes and their possible salvation.

.

STOP PLATE TECTONICS

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A great way to fritter away the time I do not spend listening to gossip or crazed media shouters. I merely contemplate impossible projects.

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The great thing about hopeless causes is that they are never resolved. There is no danger of running out of project. It’s like building a pyramid with small pebbles. Let’s ban plate tectonics!

.

When cornered by a hovering loquacious spouter of unfounded data and imagined magical solutions, I once again reach into my capricious mind and sink pleasantly into denial.

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INVERT ALL FROWNS

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What could it hurt? Take a frown, turn it upside-down, and I have the beginnings of a nice day. Just freeze that smile in place till the latest grim forebodings have passed on by.

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DUCK!

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As otherwise decent people resort to memorized what’s-this-world-coming-to rhetoric, I tend to look them in the eye, pretend to pay attention, and quietly dip into my trove of funny thoughts and merry musings. I duck.

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This is survival at its gentlest.

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Gentle is the only approach worth remembering when all the un-gentle actions of daily life run amuck.

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AMUCK OR AMOK. YOUR CHOICE!

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See, I do have choices that evade woke and dogma and power grabs and exploitation. I can just meditate on which fork in the road to take on my lifetime journey.

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I am the only person who can decide whether to run amok or amuck.

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I can tiptoe on by, hoping no-one will notice

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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THE DAY OF GOULASH AND GALOSHES

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I am a mere eight years old, in memory green.

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Some days I feel that eight-year-olds only come in groups of meres. One day I hope to become more than mere.

.

I lie still, hiding in early morning bedclothes as I drift upward, slowly ascending from a deep sleep and even deeper dreams.

.

In my dawn slumber I am swimming in a sea of heavy rubber galoshes. The galoshes change size and distance as they surround me. I try to grab one to try it on. Maybe wearing galoshes will help me survive this fantasy.

.

Then, suddenly, I am awake, relieved by reality in the tiny bedroom.

.

I examine my surroundings. All is well. The galoshes I wear on rainy treks to school sit right by the closet, safely dry and patiently awaiting my small toes.

.

When I follow the sounds and fragrances of breakfast, I find my mother multi-tasking in her kitchen. Each stovetop burner is bubbling into life a different surprise. Grits and eggs prepare themselves under her watchful eye, biscuits call out from the oven as they transform from doughy to fluffy.

.

On one burner, a covered pot produces its own aroma. I wonder what it contains.

.

“Goulash,” Mother proclaims. “We’re having goulash for supper.”

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My mind, just having suppressed a multi-galosh attack, immediately imagines a cauldron of steaming rainwear. Will the end product be chewy and tough?

.

I race back to the bedroom and grab the tattered dictionary, so filled with mysterious words and meanings and spellings.

.

“Soup’s on!” Mother calls. Now I’m really confused. Does she plan to serve a stew of galoshes? That can’t be, my struggling-to-grow-up brain tells me.

.

There it is! The dictionary reveals all! Goulash does not ordinarily contain shoe fixings, so I won’t be dreading suppertime all day.

.

I return to the kitchen and help Mom set and serve for us three kids.

.

To this day, the special flavors and textures and odors of a lovingly prepared fast-breaking homecooked meal can make my stomach rumble in anticipation.

.

I finish eating just as Mom says, “Better get you galoshes. It’s going to be a wet walk to school.”

.

My eyes widen. I bravely go to the bedroom, glancing deeply into the rubber footwear for signs of goulash. I sit on the floor and poke my shod feet into the dark interiors.

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I am now girded for the next adventure

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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Life, actually…

.

RUNNING HOT AND COLD

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When life runs hot, I run cold.

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One good way to survive these oven days is to slip into some cool thoughts.

.

Many years ago, my daughter Margaret and I figured out how to manage

our un-air-conditioned home in mid summer. We dug up some old Christmas music LPs and cassettes and pretended it was snowing.

.

It got us through.

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So, here is a freezing frozen memory of our Deep South village, not that many Januarys ago…

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Dear Red Clay Diary,

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Last week seems like a week ago. Wait—it actually was a week ago.

.

Remember how uncharacteristically cold it was in this Deep South city? How blindsided we all were when the Sunny South became a deep freeze? When short sleeves and toeless shoes suddenly seemed precisely the wrong things to wear?

.

Here are crumpled notes I found in my pockets, once the temperature rose a bit:

.

The cold day surrounding us tells its own story, while we attempt to survive being within the belly of this icy beast.

.

Babies’ rosy cheeks become chapped.

.

Out-of-shape adults walk the Tim Conway walk to avoid sprains and breaks.

.

A woman sheds tears and wrings her hands out of fear that she won’t make it home to warmth and safety.

.

Helpers appear magically out of nowhere, making themselves available to those of us who feel helpless.

.

The snow cushions sounds and makes the world seem tranquil amid the chaos.

.

Some stranded drivers decide to remain calm. Others panic. Others curse.

.

Others just take notes for later stories.

.

The Southern tradition of going barefoot suddenly seems a laughable concept.

.

Visiting snowbird tourists wonder at The Sunny South they are seeing.

.

Heroes abound: hospital and nursing home workers, firefighters, self-sacrificing motorists, teachers and school staff, good neighbors, police officers, 911 and Crisis Center operators, little kids rescuing little birds, city street workers.

.

Caring instantly trumps Selfishness.

.

What lessons did we learn from the Great Disruption?

.

1. It doesn’t take much to bring out the best in some of us.

.

2. It’s nice to know that people can be kind when given the opportunity.

.

3. Strangers can became lifelong friends in just a few hours.

.

4. Whether we like it or not, we do depend upon each other.

.

There were more lessons learned. Can you add to this list?

.

Perhaps it would be an uplifting exercise for all of us to compile a list of lessons learned.

.

It could always be referred to next time we wonder what this world is coming to

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 © Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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