Catch Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast at https://youtu.be/V2fIoMi6IbY

or read the transcript below:

THESE LITTLE PIGGIES DON’T KNOW FROM MEDICARE

 Everything I ever will need to know about doctors and hospitals, I learn as a pre-teen in 1950s Deep South America. No kidding!

As I dial the Time-O-Meter back to those days of yore, I find myself staring up at a white ceiling. I am prone on my back and there appears above me the face of Dr. Conwill.

Doc Conwill is preparing an instrument that vaguely resembles a soldering iron. As I lie here on the examination room’s white-linened gurney, I also see the face of my mother, who is hovering nearby to witness the upcoming medical procedure.

I am fully clothed except for shoes and socks. Two big toes are about to be operated on. I know that pain is about to occur, since this is the second time I will be grasping Mother’s hand while hurt is being inflicted. This little piggy and that little piggy will soon be altered just enough to make ingrown toenails behave themselves.

The only wisdom I glean from today’s medical procedure is that Pain Hurts. Yep, Pain Hurts! YEOW! is about as profound as I get.

Local anesthetics are not applied, so for the rest of my life I am sympathizing with victims of toenail torture. Only in this case, hurtfulness is for a good cause.

A few months later I am in Druid City Hospital, again face-up on an operating table. This time, Dr. Conwill has delegated my toes to the care of a surgeon who will get the the job done in a less painful and more  institutional manner. The danged toes refuse to heal themselves under Dr. Conwill’s care.

This is my first time in a hospital, first time anesthesia will be administered, first time my bare buttocks will be displayed by one of those backward-fitting hospital gowns, invented by someone with a misguided sense of humor. Bare bottom in order to operate on bare toes? Hmmm…

I fade to black and re-materialize hours later in recovery, my toes fixed, my eyes unfocused. Two days later, I stop seeing double and begin to deal with the fact that I will return to school wearing sandals—most uncool in these days of Fifties protocol.

My father enters the room, ready to meet with toe surgeon Dr. Thomas and sign discharge papers to get me the heck out of here. Dr. Thomas enters, peeks under bandages, declares me ready to exit. Dad asks how much he owes for the operation.

These are innocent times.

Dr. Thomas glances at my feet, smiles, says, “Well, let’s make that $12.50 per toe. What about $25.00?”

Dad opens his leather wallet, pulls out a twenty and a five, and the deal is done.

No co-pay, no insurance filing, no Nurse Ratched to have us jump through hoops, no series of bills and lengthy legal statements arriving in the mail.

$25.00 and I’m done with hospitals for a few decades…until last week, as a matter of fact.

But last week’s hospital stay is another, more lengthy  story, in these times when nothing in the field of medicine is as simple as barter or receiptless cash or a simple handshake

Jim Reed © 2021 A.D.

WEBSITE

Weekly Podcast: REDCLAYDIARY

Catch Jim’s 4-minute podcast at https://youtu.be/gkS55sFPvI4

or read his transcript below:

A TINTED TALE

Pretend that once upon a time you open your own business, right here in your own village. Of all the things that can go right or wrong, here is just a sample of one small item, one thing that influences your daily life. There are others!

First you lease a space that contains great big windows. The idea is that the glass will give you the feeling of wide open spaces, accessible at any time. The view will allow potential customers to feel comfortable.

Then you find that the sun is blindingly annoying at certain times of day. Customers complain, you yourself complain.

You sally forth to install shades to cover up those windows. The view is temporarily hidden. You intend to re-open the shades once the sun moves on.

Later you realize that the shades are now a habit, remaining in place because nobody thinks to go and reopen them. The only sunshine apparent is provided by bleached-light fluorescents.

Given a chance to re-design the structure you inhabit, you make sure the windows are tinted so that curtains won’t be needed, so that you can still see out and passersby can see in.

What you find out too late is that you can’t really see the clearness of day. From inside, the world appears overcast. From the outside, your place looks deserted, even when it isn’t.

Besides, newfangled windows are also not openable or closeable because air conditioning precludes the need to feel and breathe fresh—or stale—air. That also means that when the AC goes down or the power company takes a break, there is no relief to be found from a raised window.

One day, you notice that other businesses have this problem.

When you pass an eatery with heavily tinted windows, you hesitate to stop because there are no customers to be seen, no lights on view…you assume the place is closed and that somebody forgot to switch off the OPEN sign.

Instead, you select a place that looks active and vital—and sunshiny. And untinted.

Which brings up the profound question, “What are windows for, anyhow?”

Oh, sure, you can keep the windows curtainless and untinted, but even then, things happen. A vendor convinces you that you’ll make lots of money placing a new display in front of the window where all that unused space awaits. After a while, passersby only see the back of a colorless display and, once again, inside the store it is dark and eerily lighted by those ever-present fluorescents.

So, this tinted tale is about to end. The lessons you have learned about business visibility and customer satisfaction leave you wondering how you would design a business locale from scratch, should you have the opportunity.

Probably won’t happen, because all those other tutorials  need to be attended to. I could go on.

The good news is that each lesson learned is a lesson that can be shared with others about to embark onto the land of entrepreneurship. Some will ask you for advice.

On the other hand, many others will do exactly the same thing you and I do. We ignore all wisdom emanating from well-wishers. We ignore because the actual act of creating a new and viable work of art and commerce—your own business—makes you temporarily insane. You want to start your venture to prove to the world and yourself that you know better, that you can navigate without any outside intervention.

Even if you don’t even know what a rudder is

Jim Reed © 2021 A.D.

WEBSITE

Weekly Podcast: REDCLAYDIARY

Catch Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast: https://youtu.be/DajVZHnp3Dk

or read his transcript below:

SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE REMEMBERED

In my richly textured memory of being four years old back in the 1940s, I am once again facing a Philco radio.

Just four feet away, this wood-encased time machine houses some of my favorite legendary characters.

Sister Barbara and I sit on the hard wood floor in front of the radio, gazing at the textured cloth that covers a metal speaker…a speaker that hides our heroes within.

There’s the Lone Ranger, riding away from a western solved-crime scene, as townspeople wonder aloud, “Who was that masked man?”

Later on this evening, clueless jokester Fibber McGee will verbally joust with his always patient and sweet wife Molly.

Orson Welles’ voice will vibrate the speaker when his alter ego The Shadow makes the bad guys regret their anti-social behavior.

And Jack Benny will make us laugh the hardest when he’s not saying anything at all–the longer he pauses, the more we are amused.

And so on.

The real mystery: How do all these life-sized characters manage to shrink down to the size of a radio interior for a few minutes each week?

Other puzzles of childhood haunt me.

No matter how many times I rapidly open the refrigerator door, I can’t catch the guy inside who is in charge of turning the light off and on.

My frequent attempts to push at the living room mirror, to enter the reverse world on the other side…they just don’t work. Apparently, only Alice can achieve this feat while she is inside her story.

Even when I shout SHAZAM! at the heavens, I never turn into Captain Marvel. I forever remain meek and mild Billy Batson.

When I don a tee-shirt emblazoned with the handmade felt image of a black bat, when I am complete with improvised utility belt, I don’t really become Bat Man. I just stand there in the back yard, looking around for criminals to subdue. They don’t appear.

As I progress in age, I begin to see the clear difference between reality and expectation. As I draw crayoned stories on butcher paper, as I block-letter penciled tales of wished-for adventures of derring-do, I come to realize that all stories, invented or true, exist to entertain and distract me from the more blatant events of daily life.

And even though, to this day, I love the act of imagining and wishing, I am always able to beam back to reality when needed.

I Walter Mitty my life as well as I can.

All these eons later, here I am, distracting you from the pangs and pains of life, if only for a minute or three.

My job is done here. For today, at least

Jim Reed © 2021 A.D.

WEBSITE

Weekly Podcast: REDCLAYDIARY

Catch Jim’s Red Clay Diary podcast on youtube: https://youtu.be/LbDUb4ROxso

or read his story below…

Life, Actually

ON NOMADS AND BIKERS AND OTHER BOOKLOVERS

A nomadic wanderer arrives, intent on acquiring authentic nostalgia that will later be affixed to the walls of a restaurant chain. She is happy with her trove.

A film director and crew spend the afternoon getting a scene just right in the small room where fantasy books reside. A talented actress and I get to repeat take after take until the filmmakers are satisfied. It is quite fun. Show biz.

An Oxford scholar visits and finds pleasure in the passel of C. S. Lewis books he can add to his collection. He, too, owns bookstores, and we carry on a conversation about nerdy things, bookie things, to our mutual satisfaction. He talks about Inklings, I talk about Bradburian lit.

A mischievous child finds the bookshop to be a playground. She meanders and pretends to be mute.

Bandanna head coverings mark the tribe of bikers who enjoy their visit and purchase a wide range of titles.

A favorite customer sports a cane and a ligament problem as he brings me up to date on a sci-fi series he’s following.

A retired librarian trades memories with me, recalls times when kids loved books and behaved in class and responded to her periodic SHUSH! And SSSSHHHH!

A WWII fan combs the wartime shelves and finds a classic or two.

A bookless patron cruises the aisles and looks puzzled when her companion finds excitement on the shelves.

One visitor wrings hands and explains how frustrating it is, trying to “get” friends and family to read good stuff.

A quick in-and-outer grabs a thriller, drops some cash, and heads bikeward to find lunch.

A quiet and furtive person whispers, “Where do you keep the occult books?”

A bright-eyed denizen looks me straight in the eye and begs me to recommend something really worthwhile. This, of course, gets me going…I do go on. Surprisingly, she takes my advice! Who knew?

I take a break in monitoring, sip a carbonated drink, breathe deeply, and prepare for the next thirty mini-adventures I will have before closing time.

I am happy to be so happy in my happy occupation

© 2021 by Jim Reed

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Weekly Podcast: REDCLAYDIARY

Catch Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast on youtube: https://youtu.be/k4ssCe91itA

or read his transcript below:

TRANSCRIBING THE TIME REMAINING     

I am a quiet listener, a covert observer, a note-taker, a silent transcriptionist. All things interest and intrigue me.

As a writer, this is sometimes an affliction, sometimes a wondrous pleasure.

 Today, I can’t help reflecting on the wispiness of life. Bear with me and perhaps we will discover our similarities…

“You know how it is you know how it is.”  The rapid street-talker is a bit overheated. He’s got scraggly hair of different lengths floating about, just over his ears and on the back of his neck. No other hair apparent.

But there is enough hair wandering that you can’t really say he’s bald. “You know how it goes you know how it goes,” he keeps saying.

I listen more closely.

He’s talking about the value of one product at Dollar General and how—you know, you know—it’s better at Wal-mart and how some things at Wal-Mart are not as good as Dollar General. “You know how it goes you know how it goes.” Family Dollar and Dollar Tree will eventually enter the rant.

I grin. Somehow, I know exactly what he’s talking about. I hear similar monologues wherever I go. Hordes of comparers telling no-one in particular how their lives are progressing. Even if most of their time is spent comparison-shopping, it is something to do. Something to do.

I watch as younger people, filled with energy, brimful of directionlessness, beautiful in their remaining baby fat, begin to sculpt themselves into who they already are. They are now their adult versions. Their skin changes, their bone structure changes, their entire demeanor becomes something they did not quite expect.

Unfolded and examined, their inner lives consist of a lovely mishmash of hopes, dreams, reflections, expectations, disappointments…band-aids here and there attest to their coping abilities, their daily hopeful regenerations.

Meanwhile, way past the majority of doled-out years, I spend time distracting myself from life’s inevitableness. I live on hope and fond memory. I long to hug loved ones once more. I do not expect gratitude, so I love it even more when it is offered. I tally received gestures, received gifts.

I am my own nation. Young or old, I suppose you are, too.

It is a joyful, bumpy ride, this time I have. What a journey!

As my imaginary friend Pig-Pen once said, “I have affixed to me the dust of countless ages. Who am I to disturb history?”

Someday, someday…after my absence is no longer noted, my dreams and I will become nothing more than half a mist in an old echo of a sweet memory

© Jim Reed 2021 A.D.

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Weekly Podcast: REDCLAYDIARY

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RUNTY SQUIRREL WINS MOTHBALL WAR

A ragged piece of roofing material PLOPS to the wooden deck attached to our home. The rough-surfaced grey material is heavy. It lands inches from my feet. It misses my head.

I quickly gaze skyward to see how this can happen. Peeking down at me from the roof is Runty Squirrel, a grizzled denizen of the ‘hood. Runty has just chewed loose another tile. At this rate Runty will soon make happen a nice new portal to the heavens.

Before I can react, Runty twitches, seems to gesture, darts away. In my imagination he’s mocking me, daring to risk another attack on the house.

Through the years, our ancient dwelling has experienced dozens of sieges from Runty and his gang. We’ve spent lots of loot on bloodless but unsuccessful defense strategies. Done much research and heard mostly hilarious but improbable solutions from folks who want to help but who don’t understand the nature of squirrels.

I am now philosophical about these critters. I sense that they recognize us as pesky invaders of the hills and valleys of Alabama. After doing battle with them I also realize that we are indeed interlopers. Humans come and go. Squirrels remain and bide their time, awaiting the day we’ll become nomads and leave them to their territory.

Wise and kindly thoughts such as these do not address my problem. I need to protect my home and family. I need to find a way to co-exist with Runty and company. l won’t destroy Runty’s nests if Runty won’t destroy mine.

So, I try one more strategy. I understand that, like me, squirrels hate the odor of mothballs. Indeed, word is that squirrels will move their nests away from any mothball-infested area.

This sounds too good to be true, but it is disguised as a simple and inexpensive solution to a mighty perplexity.

To make an already too-long story shorter, I obtain mothballs, clamber into the dusty attic, scatter the small naphthalene spheres all over the place, and smugly report to Liz that I think the infestation may soon be over. And, as a fictitious version of H.G. Wells once said, “The first man to raise a fist is the man who’s run out of ideas.” I’m bragging that I did not have to raise my fist.

Late that night, and many nights thereafter, I toss, turn, moan, cuss, and regret that I ever heard of mothballs. Their odor is powerful, offensive, probably dangerous to mere human me. They obviously have no effect on the squirrels, who still inhabit their nests.

I picture Runty and brood partying and dancing while nibbling pecans and mothballs as appetizers.

I concede defeat.

Liz finally makes the Inevitable Call. A nearby specialist is known far and wide as the Infestation Terminator.

Within days, he has sealed up egress, ingress, portal, exit, entrance…any place a squirrel can find access to us. The squirrels move out. I enter my usual Denial Mode, refusing to consider any possibility that tiny lives may have been snuffed out in the process. Hopefully not.

I still see Runty and his progeny circling the house, running along power lines, leaping from limb to limb, barely escaping feral cats, occasionally gesturing to me.

I can at least entertain the fantasy that we are co-existing. I can accept the fact that we will be long gone someday, that squirrels will continue resisting and existing.

Who knows? We could someday be Squirrel Planet Three. Long after human time has played out

© Jim Reed 2021 A.D.

WEBSITE

Weekly Podcast: REDCLAYDIARY

Catch Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary on youtube: https://youtu.be/MbmmdGl8eJk

or read his transcript:

Life, Actually

 THE ROAR OF THE DOPE FIZZ

 I am way back in time again, back to the 1940s and 1950s. Back when First Things Ever happen almost every day.

If you have a minute, I have a true tale to share.

I am sitting on the concrete base that supports a gasoline pump in front of my grandfather’s general store. This is a brief break from my chores. I watch traffic whiz by on the old Birmingham highway in this village called Peterson, Alabama.

This is the only week in my life when I have the privilege of working inside the store. It is a great honor to be chosen for this job—ask my cousins.

Earlier, I snap to attention behind the main sales counter as a rough edged coal miner squeaks open the front screen door, the door that sports a bright yellow metal sign depicting Little Miss Sunbeam beaming at you as she bites into a slice of white Sunbeam Bread.

The miner looks at me and grumps, “Gimme a Dope.”

I freeze in place, afraid to admit that I have no idea what “Gimme a Dope” means. I begin to sputter, but Uncle Brandon is within earshot and saves me. He stops his installation of new shelving made from cut-up Coca Cola sign metal and saunters over to one of the soft drink coolers.

The miner and I stare at each other and glance at Uncle Brandon, who deftly fetches a Coca Cola from the box, shakes off the water, clinks the top off, using the static opener, and hands over the thick bottle. The miner accepts the drink, drops a shiny nickel into my palm, smiles “Thanks” and heads for Miss Sunbeam.

It turns out that Cokes at one time in the distant past contained legal cocaine. Once banned, the cocaine disappeared but the nickname remains.

So now, during my first break from clerking, I sit and watch the traffic, watch Uncle Brandon pump gas. And I am ready to make the day better.

Just now, I reach deep into the cooler, fish out a Grapico, and exit the store. As I sit, I glug down the fizzy grape-flavored fluid and refresh my dry gullet. Life is good.

I am already thinking about the next break, should I get one. I plan to grab a Dope, fill it with half a packet of Tom’s Toasted Peanuts, and prepare to experience that salty, liquid, crunchy carbonation that only such a mixture can provide.

And I look forward to my grandfather’s placid smile as, late in the day, he will serve me a hand-double-dipped ice cream cone that only roadside store clerks like me can properly enjoy.

As I lie abed in the guest room of my grandparents’ home that night, I think about my lessons for the day. I’ve learned what good customer service is like, what unspoken kindnesses can occur in a small town, what family, real family, feels like, how hard work can be good and satisfying.

And I learned what a Dope was and still is. 

To this day, I remain a Dope fiend, taking a slug of morning caffeine from a Coke container…and occasionally, when nobody’s looking, I drop some salted peanuts into the bubbly brew and recall what life was like before it became overlayered with the weight of heavier times

© Jim Reed 2021 A.D.

WEBSITE

Weekly Podcast: REDCLAYDIARY

Catch Jim’s podcast: 

https://youtu.be/mbAJR4mxwpo

or read the transcript below…

Life, Actually…

THE FIRST AND BEST FRIENDS I EVER HAD

A page from my lifelong Red Clay Diary.

Filled with remembrances that never go away, that stay true and vivid and loyal.

All the way from a Deep South Village childhood to right now…

Monk and Deebie were my imaginary friends when I was a child.

I use the term “imaginary friends” as shorthand so you’ll know approximately what I’m talking about.

The truth is, Monk and Deebie were in no way imaginary. As any adult who ever had such companions will tell you, imaginary friends are very real, very solid, very three-dimensional and quite alive.

If you’ve ever had the privilege of living close to an imaginary friend, you know what I’m talking about. If you have never for a moment enjoyed the presence of an imaginary friend, then I can’t imagine how you got through childhood’s enormous obstacles in one piece.

Monk and Deebie lived with me in a world all their own, a world exactly contiguous to yours and mine.

This is not exactly a parallel universe, because both the universe of Monk and Deebie and the universe of you and me exist simultaneously in the same place. And, yes, two worlds can and do exist in the same location at the same moment, as any child can tell you.

Monk and Deebie were a fully adult couple, a middle-aged husband and wife who lived peacefully and with comfortable dignity in a small home that I could occupy at any time. They often joined my family for meals, and I often joined them in their home for meals and camaraderie.

Being the luckiest child alive, I was granted the most gentle and understanding real-life family you can imagine. My mother and father and sister took my childhood seriously. They never made fun of Monk and Deebie. They accepted me and my only friends. They set places at our little garage apartment kitchen table for this couple they could only see through my eyes.

My family and Monk and Deebie nurtured and supported me. As I said, I was the luckiest child alive.

The great thing about Monk and Deebie was they were exactly my size, even though they were grownups.

Monk always wore a nicely-tailored brown, double-breasted suit and tie and smoked a large cigar. Deebie was neatly attired in a 1940′s Sunday school dress complete with apron for working around their little kitchen.

One day, Monk and Deebie disappeared.

As a child full of energy and imagination and challenges at hand, I did not know they had packed up and moved on to support the next three-year-old shy kid who needed them. Later, I imagined that Monk and Deebie traveled around, helping one kid till things looked safe and stable, then leaving to help another…

Ever since childhood, now and then, I think about Monk and Deebie, my very first personal friends, friends who never let me down, never criticized me. Friends who to this day accept me the way I was and the way I am.

To this day, I am certain that if they ever decide to re-appear and visit me they will still be accepting and loving and as comfortably situated in my heart as they always were in their tiny living room when I was three of age.

I’ve discussed the concept of imaginary friends with adults who had them around when they were kids, and I’ve noticed that their imaginary friends were every bit as important to them as mine were to me. I don’t understand any of this at all. But you know, I’m not sure I want to understand or probe too deeply.

After all, what if Monk and Deebie return and find that I no longer believe in them?

What an embarrassment that would be.

Here’s hoping that you and Monk and Deebie are comfortable having a fine time remembering the good and disenfranchising the bad and just generally having a happy thought intrude itself on your existence once in a while in this real and imaginary life

© Jim Reed 2021 A.D.

WEBSITE

TIMEWASTERS LLC

 Tired of snapping alert, suddenly finding you’ve been frittering away precious time?

 Feeling guilty about not completing tasks, just because you zoned out or got distracted by something unproductive?

Timewasters is here to help.

Timewasters…wasting time on your behalf…so that you can do what needs to be done.

File away your guilt and shame. Allow Timewasters to take over the useless activities that get in the way…freeing you up to get on with it.

While you are slaving away, Timewasters will take care of all the unimportant things…like snacking, scrolling, channel-hopping, scratching, obsessing, mulling, whining while texting, gossiping, shaming, belittling, bolstering, tweeting, snapchatting, binging, ordering online products you’ll never use, returning online products you’ll never use…

Engage Timewasters…

So that you can now concentrate on completing the job, cleaning up around here, straightening things, catching up on friends, actually reading a book…while Timewasters is busy doing insignificant things you no longer linger over, like plucking hairs you’ve never noticed till now, watching one sports activity played repeatedly from dozens of angles in both slow motion and real time…comparison-pricing items you’ll never buy, comforting annoying people who take up too much time, face-timing with acquaintances you detest but are afraid to confront, sucking up to superiors who do nothing but brush you off.

Timewasters! We are here for you!

Call us  whenever you grow tired of aimlessness. Whenever you wish to feel worthwhile once more.

Timewasters LLC

Lolling about, just for you

© Jim Reed 2021 A.D.

WEBSITE

Listen to Jim’s podcast: https://youtu.be/tDWIznQxLFo

or read his transcript below:

PATCHWORK SNUGGLE

There are times that I am four years old. The first time I feel four is the time I actually am four, so many years ago. But there are many other times when I feel four again, times that continue to this day.

Just a few minutes ago, I was four again. Four, but with decades of life and experience laid on. That means I am having four-year-old thoughts and ancient grown-up thoughts all at the same time. Jumbled together, they make a profound stew.

One of those times:

The early morning of winter is so cold I wish I could snuggle forever beneath quilts and blankets and comforters. The between-time, the moments when wakefulness arises and sleep creeps away to wherever sleep creeps away to…this between time is precious. Part of what makes it precious is that I am learning that it cannot last uninterrupted.

My four-year-old self and my generations-old self wonder about life in the same way, but time and age enable me to express it all using post-childhood words.

Empathy is something encapsulated within me, something only I can feel, that no-one else knows I am feeling. At surprisingly unpredictable times, empathy magically extends itself, spreading kindnesses and kindly behavior. When empathy happens, comfort and goodwill abound. All seems right, all seems in place.

Other times, empathy sullenly hides and refuses to appear on demand, a coward ducking behind barriers of fear and trembling, confusion and disorientation.

Life is a puzzle at best. Life is so good now and then that the future feels possible. During the good periods, I try to get things done. I cling to the idea that things could be like this forever, if only…

But, just to keep me on my toes, uncertainty waits impatiently to find entrance to a less-sure self.

I lie here in my familiar bed beneath familiar covers, in a familiar room. For this instant, all is well.

In another instant, I will hop to it. I will get ready to work and play at the same time. I will brace myself against impending sorrow, open myself up to laughter and camaraderie, look for the good things that come from bad things, anticipate the bad things so that I can make them bearable.

In other words, like any ancient four-year-old, I will make do. I will try to cherish and remember the sweetness that presents itself now and then. I will somehow muddle through the day.

I will look forward to the next snuggle

© Jim Reed 2021 A.D.

WEBSITE