Life, actually…

A RECORDED PHONE MESSAGE I WILL NEVER

HAVE ENOUGH COURAGE TO LEAVE

 RingRingRingRing…

CLICK

My voice…

Hello.

I may or may not be the person you are attempting to contact. If you do not wish to leave a message you may hang up now.

If you leave a message there’s a good chance I will return your call…provided it is not a sales pitch or a survey or a hustle.

If you do not leave a voice message I will not know that you called, since I live in another century and do not check Caller ID.

When you leave a message it would be helpful to know what you want to communicate to me. If you just leave a name and number and I have never heard of you, you can be assured that I may not return your call.

If your message is polite and mannerly I may wish to talk with you anyhow.

Just sayin’.

You may proceed to leave a message or not leave a message…wait for the beep. Have a good life!

BEEP.

(OK, OK…I admit that I would never be this blatant on the phone…but having a fantasy now and then couldn’t hurt anybody. Could it?)

You may click to something more interesting on the internet now.

I’m done for today

 Jim Reed © 2021 A.D.

MOMENTS MISSED, MOMENTS RECLAIMED

Now that healing is reassembling life into some semblance of its former order, I can glance over my shoulder and re-cherish, re-appreciate what was lost, what was recovered.

It’s all good.

Standing in the kitchen of our 1906-era home I recall the swoosh of the upstairs shower, the way it sounded prior to the months-long affliction that silenced it. Now the swoosh is back. She is back.

Her distant morning sneeze is a comforting signal that she is moving about again, getting done the things that she loves getting done.

Her musical voice via zoom or phone reassures me that her soul is bouncing once more, reanimated by friends and family.

Her rhythmic breathing next to me at night makes up for the weeks we could not share a bed.

The halo fragrance of her morning routines, soap, shampoo, perfume, ointment, settles me down and renews my smile.

Creaking wooden floorboards provide evidence of her presence, mingled with the creaks and croaks emanating from my movements.

And now that she laughs once again at my worn-out quips and jokes, I feel hope and joy once more.

That look she gives me when I’ve gone too far. That look she gives me when I have not gone far enough. These are my anchors.

Let me summarize:

She pulls me toward the light.

What more could I possible wish for

 Jim Reed © 2021 A.D.

Life, actually…

CATCH AS CATCH CAN’T

Long, long ago, in a galaxy located exactly where I am now, I am in memory sweet a kid with no sports skills…attempting to be a young Babe Ruth in order to please everybody but myself.

I am trying to turn dream into reality.

But here is my reality:

The leathery-skinned ball is speeding directly toward my face. My hands and fingers are splayed in an attempt to catch the ball or at least deflect it from my nose.

It’s coming at me. I close my eyes and try to grab it with both hands.

The ball coming at me seems to be an act of aggression. What did I ever do to this object to make it wish to attack me?

I know that I have to learn not to blink, but how do I do that?

If the ball arrives at waist level I can try to snare it. But my hands are not positioned correctly. I do not know how to coolly intercept it like the playground athletes surrounding me.

I’m also afraid to chase a grounder because the ball will not let me know where it will bounce next. For some reason I have an abiding fear of a broken nose, particularly if it is mine.

“Hey, boy! What team are you going out for?”

The outfield gruffy behind me is wondering how I was allowed to be on the field in the first place.

I have no idea what “going out for” means so I say, “The Red Sox!” The gruffy bites his tongue.

I am destined to be anything but an athlete.

I contract athlete’s foot from the school locker room. As close to living an athlete’s life as I will ever get.

I feebly try again.

At bat, I take the classic stance I see in the movies. The ball surprises me with its intrinsic speed and power. It has already slapped the catcher’s mitt before my swing even begins.

I now realize that the bat must aim at a spot I predict will contain the ball. If said ball does not meet expectation, a strike will be called.

My only strategy is to hope that the pitcher will miss the strike area four times and that I will get to first base by default.

I am overcome with the miserable idea that I cannot play ball, thus disappointing family and humiliating myself.

To make a short story shorter, I do go on to other activities in my long search for a place in the sun. Eventually, I sort of excel at lots of things having nothing to do with sports and macho heroism.

I am grateful for what I can do and I only look back once in a while, at moments like this, to imagine for an instant that it is possible to become an instant Babe Ruth kid.

If only in my dreams

 Jim Reed © 2021 A.D.

Life, actually…

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REEL LIFE IN THE 1950s

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The shiny new Silvertone reel to reel tape recorder hums idling in my darkened childhood bedroom. I am preparing to audio-record a radio show, and it is two minutes till air time.

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The time is 1959, when my world is still young and ladened with hope.

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I just purchased this metallic time machine, agreeing to make monthly payments till all debt is settled. My fevered dreams are invested in the craft of making time repeat itself at my leisure.

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The needle volume gauge awaits the push of a button. The motor rumbles and vibrates. The pristine rheostat knobs beg at the starting gate.

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And now, the radio station ID spoken, the daily comedy show begins and the reels start spinning. The left-hand reel moves counter-clockwise, feeding a brown plastic ribbon past magnetized cubes, the right hand reel neatly spools the now-recorded sound.

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Within minutes I will have my own repeatable archived recording of the Bob and Ray Presents the CBS Radio Network show.

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Once I’ve pressed the STOP button, I push REWIND and watch the left-hand reel re-claim the fresh recording.

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Later tonight, just before sleepville, I will re-load the program, push PLAY and slowly fall asleep grinning to the improvised shenanigans of the two funniest comedians of my lifetime.

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How could life feel any more satisfying than it feels right now?

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This is as good as it gets, at least for this crystal-clear one-of-a-kind moment in time

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Jim Reed © 2021 A.D.

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WEBSITE

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Weekly Podcast: REDCLAYDIARY

Life, actually…

WHEN BIPPY AND BEEPER RULED

“Beep me.”

“Page me.”

“Call my pager.”

“Here’s my beeper number.”

“Uh, where’s the charger?”

If you remember all these phrases and thoughts, you are getting on up in age. Looking back, it is difficult to understand how beepers were a real Thing for a time.

Much ado about mostly nothing.

The concept of non-emergency crises seems to have been invented just in time for paging, right before we learned to spend our waking hours on inconsequential matters via thumb-poked phone.

Yes, Children of the 21st. Back before and during my time, there were no cellphones.

We did have other ways to communicate, each of which came and went as fashion swayed to and fro.

There were walkie-talkies and two-way radios and telephones and telegrams and semaphores and smoke signals and megaphones and tin cans joined by string…

And voice to voice hosepipes and postcards and letters.

There was sky writing, there was the Pony Express, there were letter carriers, there were pigeons and couriers and, and…well, there were plenty of ways to communicate, plenty of ways to annoy someone.

Great inventions all.

But progress often accompanies regress.

With any communications advance comes the opportunity to relay useless and irritating messages.

Then came beepers, a 1970s fashion accessory, invented right before hand-toted electronics conquered the world.

Invented at the same time but in parallel societies was the bippy.

The bippy was a verbal device designed to make you giggle. Used only by comedians and wisecrackers, bippy had no meaning at all. Later, made-up  words like yahoo and google were inspired by bippy.

Silly and meaningless and unforgettable.

Back then, during bippy and beeper times, every executive or entrepreneur or professional just had to possess a beeper. Clipped to belt or purse or pocket, peeping out from a holster, hiding deep within an inside pocket, there lurked a beeper, a pager, or whatever else they were called.

When your beeper “went off” or paged you, you were required to grab a nearby phone and “call the office” or “call home” to see what the urgency was.

This made you feel connected, important, superior.

Whatever happened to all those beepers that are now cast aside?

For that matter, whatever happened to bippies and bippy jokes?

Bippy jokes made us chuckle even when we were not feeling so chuckly.

I’d like to spend just five minutes one day, once more contemplating my bippy and responding to my beeper. Five minutes would be about all I could tolerate.

You can bet your sweet bippy, er, beeper, it would be harmless fun.

And harmless, non-judgmental, non-shaming fun is exactly what I could use a bit more of.

Pardon my grammar. My beeper just went off and my bippy made me do it

(c) 2021 A.D. by Jim Reed

Catch Jim’s podcast:

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jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

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Listen to Jim’s 4-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/2G32pLL3Kqo

or read his transcript below:

Life, actually…

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MY ’54 CHEVY OIL GUZZLER AND I GO EXPLORING

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I am now time-travelled back to the days before interstate highways were a thing. I struggle to legally-park the green machine—my very first car, a rusty 1954 Chevrolet.

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Today, I get lucky. It only takes six forward-reverse maneuvers to land between designated white lines. I creak open the driver’s door and check to make sure adjacent vehicles are safely distanced from my precious cruiser.

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I enter the Jitney Junior—what you folks in the future will call a convenience store–and select enough snacks to last me through my upcoming journey.

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As I head down the winding blue road, I feel my independence beckoning. While inside this upholstered automatic-shift rattler, I am my own boss. I am king of my own little booth of privacy.

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The AM radio picks up a staticky signal, providing me with a private performance by Nat King Cole. The green machine and I politely stop to allow a rattling locomotive to pass by. A quick glance and a smiling wave are offered to the engineer. He returns the gesture.

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Once the earth stops rumbling, once the flashing red signals are dampened, once the coast is clear left and right, I push gas peddle, savor rail bumps, and begin the  journey.

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In the rearview mirror I see plumes of blue-gray smoke as acceleration occurs. In the trunk are unopened cans of motor oil. I use several quarts a week, not to mention the required gallons of gas. A just-in-case empty gasoline can shudders next to the oil containers. An oily rag rests atop them, useful when frequent fluid checks are needed.

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Eventually, I pass city limits signs and arrive in the village of Moundville. The state park is my destination. While it is only a short distance from home, it is a great distance from civilization.

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Moundville is the quietist place. Very few people travel here among the enormous mounds constructed by long-gone Native Americans. The quietness is appropriate. The quietness is homage to the thriving village that used to be here. Beautiful green grass covers the mounds. Silence hovers, forcing introspection and meditation.

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I drive through the enormous area, then enter the museum that displays instructive artifacts and exhibits that remind those of us living that there were once earlier families and tribes going about their daily lives.

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Since childhood, my infrequent visits to Moundville have infused my imagination with the idea that others came and went before me. And that I, too, have arrived and will eventually be replaced by future others who in turn will live their lives…

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My sobering moments completed, I am now ready to check the oil, test the faulty gas gauge, dispose of cellophane wrappings that once housed nibbles, brush away the crumbs, and head back to my tribe.

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As I pass shops and eateries and service stations and asbestos-shingled bungalows and dusty side roads, I ponder a bit about things like small temporary villages, passing behaviors, gossamer lives, love and life and death, passion and listlessness, moral high and low grounds…you know, things that are unsolvable but must be mentally massaged once in a while.

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I think about the joys and terrors that I may experience in the coming decades of life on earth. I struggle to write these feeling and observations down so that each moment will mean much more than just another day, just another life.

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I am destined to be a writer and recorder. I just don’t know it yet

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Jim Reed © 2021 A.D.

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WEBSITE

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Weekly Podcast: REDCLAYDIARY

Hear Jim’s podcast on youtube:  https://youtu.be/ipW_Ks6M0tQ

Life, actually…

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COMINGS AND GOINGS IN THE DEEP SOUTH

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Unfettered thermometers exceed the 90 mark on this gloriously brilliant sunshine day.

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A covered-dish family reunion is taking shape in the foothills of Appalachia, and I am here to bask.

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Relatives I haven’t seen in years exit the heat. They suddenly glory in the air conditioned environment of an immaculate countryside building where communion and comradeship are taking place.

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Kinfolk I can’t name mingle with longtime familiar faces. As each family lays out victuals to share and compare, laughter and tears combine. People I can identify only by sight welcome me as one of this sweet tribe. People I know from childhood grin and comfort me as I pass among them. Hugs are offered and accepted.

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This reunion is a sharing of memory and expectation. Invisible ghosts of people no longer here, wend their way through the crowd as we share stories and anecdotes about them. We miss them, but we are happy that they no longer feel the pain and sadness of departure.

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We pay close attention to those of us still present and accounted for.

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We take our time listening and sympathizing. We talk and signify.

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The long table of gifted food is aswirl with homemade dishes, freshly plucked fruits and vegetables, carry-out goodies, thawed-out casseroles, steaming tasties and chilled crunchies and shockingly addictive desserts.

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We honor the toddlers and revere the nonagenarians and compare, always compare.

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This is our way of seeing live and in person the people we are slowly beginning to age like, our way of remembering how beautiful life felt when we were young and thankfully clueless.

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We are all having such a good experience being suspended in time that we don’t want to leave. And we re-experience the trademark of our tribe: the long, long goodbyes.

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Each farewell takes as much as an hour as we attempt to hold and fist-bump and shake hands without leaving anybody out.

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In memory, the long long goodbyes will have to last till this time next year, when once again we aim our vehicles toward the sacred gathering place where familiar souls commune

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Jim Reed © 2021 A.D.

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WEBSITE

*.*.*.

Weekly Podcast: REDCLAYDIARY

Life, actually…

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AIRING OUT THE UNNOTICEABLES 

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Paying attention to the normally unnoticeable is my favorite pastime. It’s a way to avoid dealing with the harsher realities. It is deeply satisfying at times when nothing else is.

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Paying attention to the villages and villagers around me keeps me in touch with the textures of being alive.

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For instance:

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The Wandering Woman shows up everywhere I go. She is always on foot. She is forever on her way to someplace else. Her lanky, serious trek is all-consuming. I see her in the ‘burbs, in the town centers, in the in-between alleys and roadways. You can watch for her, too. She’s the woman whose scarf hides her hair, or the lack thereof.

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I pass by a brilliantly-red fire engine and the firefighters who make it sparkle. I wonder, Why is a fire station called a Fire Station? Why not Life-Endangering Conflagration Abolition Central or Department of De-Flamation or Fahrenheit 451 Control? Or even Douse That Fire Headquarters?

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I cruise the asphalted lanes piercing the villages. My wife asks, Why does the interstate highway sign read Downtown Exit? Why isn’t it called Entrance, since the turn lane leads into the City, not out of it?

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I espy the homemade signs, both mysterious and misleading. The best sign I ever saw: EARS PIERCED WHILE YOU WAIT. No kidding. Just two blocks from my shop.

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One thrift store has a large hand-lettered sign: DO NOT PLAY WITH TOYS. So…what else would they like for me to do with them? It would be more poetic to say: DO NOT TOY WITH TOYS.

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I just drove past an elevator service repair company, located in a one-story building. Think on this for a moment.

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A large metal sign at the Power Company instructs, “To provide faster service a bill stub will be required at the drive thru beginning January 1, 1997.” This means a lot if you’re still living in 1996.

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It’s 96 degrees outside. On the sidewalk a hot dog is eating a discarded hot dog.

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They say two plus two equal four. They never specify four what. Does this apply to everything?

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See what I mean? Paying attention to the unnoticeable takes my mind away from crises both real and feared. My paying attention gifts marginalized people with status they don’t even know they have.

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Paying attention makes me feel I am not wasting my time in these climes. Not everything has to be political, not every observation has to be a critique.

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Indeed, paying attention helps me look life and you in the eye. It keeps me in touch with the gentle beauty of all the firmament I am privileged to inhabit.

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Come join me in taking notes and paying homage to all that might otherwise be missed

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Jim Reed © 2021 A.D.

*.*.*.

WEBSITE

*.*.*.

Weekly Podcast: REDCLAYDIARY