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THE PLACE OF ASSIGNATION WHEREIN ALL SWEET MEMORY ORIGINATES

Things are bigger, in the times of yore I’m reminiscing about this morning.

Back in my day, young’uns like me race to the mail box just to be first to grab enormous issues of Life Magazine and discover what bigger-than-life people command this week’s cover. The nearly life-sized faces influence the way I view the world. For instance, there is gaunt Gandhi, to this day my idea of how a normal human, warts and all, can influence millions through exemplary behavior.

I learn from Gandhi that people actually watch what I do. When I misbehave, their expectations descend. When I do something right and good, they rise up to meet me.

Even larger than magazines in these pre-television years, are movies and the people who tell me big-screen stories I cannot forget. There is James Baskett, a charismatic actor who tells me the morality tales and behavior parables I will need for the next seven decades. For instance, as Uncle Remus, Baskett taught me to look for the humor and humanity in every situation:

Everybody’s got a laughin’ place,
A laughin’ place, to go ho-ho!
Take a frown, turn it upside-down,
And you’ll find yours I know ho-ho!

To this day I return to my laughing place whenever things loom sour. It is my assignation shelter, where no-one can pound me with negativity.

And actual real-life people influence me enormously. Uncle Brandon McGee becomes my model for how to excite the imagination of a withdrawn kid. He is always accessible to visitors like me, showing me how to candle eggs to ensure quality, how to take an old piece of metal advertising signage and turn it into something useful, how to make his pet dog memorable by naming him Stinky.

Uncle Brandon, like Uncle Remus, makes me find a smile where none is apparent, forces me to make my imagination and innate energy useful.

Many decades later, I take Ray Bradbury’s advice and jump off the mountain, building my parachute on the way down, landing beyond the walls of corporate incarceration I endure for too long. I land on a splintery bench in a pocket park near my home. Each morning, I walk to the bench, sit for a meditative period, and allow my laughing place to rise up and comfort me.

Nowadays, my laughing place–my sweet assignation zone–is portable. I take my gifts from Uncle Brandon, Gandhi, Uncle Remus, and dozens of others who matter to me, dozens of others to whom I matter, and I escort them safely along the way. They are not where you can see them anymore. And I am still learning from them the neverending lessons that remain to be learned.

They are all secure in my laughing place, my bench of lovely assignation

© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed

 jim@jimreedbooks.com

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or read forth…

THE HANSEL AND GRETEL TO AND FRO TRAIL

A crinkly Fritos bag peeks out of the driver side window of the vehicle I am trailing up 20th Street.

Suddenly, the world at large sucks the empty orange package out of the car. I watch as it twirls itself onto the middle lane. It resides there only a moment, then is pulled aloft by an errant breeze.

In my rear view mirror, it waves a confused good-bye and tumbles forth to an obscure destiny.

Then, a plastic drinking straw appears as the hand of the driver tosses it forth to join its Fritos pal.

Is the navigator of this motorized conveyance marking the roadway for later return navigation? I’ll call him GPS-less Hansel, since Gretel left him in a huff some time back, the thirtieth time she disapproved of his careless use of public byways as personal dumpster. Among other infractions.

By the time Hansel retraces his journey on 20th Street, searching for the uncyclable markers, his way will have been long obscured by breeze and street maintenance personnel.

“Dammit,” Hansel will mutter. “Where am I?”

Alone tonight, in his battered lounger, gazing at an enormous screen, scarfing canned beverage and micro’d popcorn, he will have forgotten his adventure.

However, tomorrow is another day, so his can and buttered bag will rest beside him as he once more marks his way up 20th.

“Maybe today will be better than yesterday,” he mumbles half aloud, as he extrudes a sausage-egg wrapper onto the noncommittal street

© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed

 jim@jimreedbooks.com

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or read his comments below…

THE EVER-READY THIRD AVENUE HAN SOLO SECURITY FORCE

A note from my way-back-when Red Clay Diary. Seems like yesterday:

Harrison Ford stands outside the Museum of Fond Memories at Reed Books and gazes intently at the passing Third Avenue North traffic.

A cardboard life-sized stand-up, Ford is disguised as weapon-drawn Han Solo, ever alert and ready for action. He is just in front of the perpetual two-dollar-each rack of old LP recordings we sell each workday to any eager collector or passing afficionado.

No-one ever shop-lifts our recordings because they are guarded by, you know, Han Solo.

Way across four lanes of Third Avenue, inside Goodyear Shoe Hospital, Rhonda, the owner, keeps looking up from her tasks, wondering who that guy is, the one who for hours is staring at her store from the vantage point of the bookshop.

Is he waiting for a  ride? Is he a vagrant? Is he spying?

This becomes annoying. Doesn’t this stranger have anything better to do?

Finally, she deploys an employee to come into my store and find out what the heck is going on with this unofficial surveillance behavior.

“Why, it is Han Solo, protecting the neighborhood,” I tell her later.

Rhonda laughs and relaxes when she finds out that our guardian guard is just a facsimile, not FBI or IRS or Neighborhood Watch or CIA or anybody else who might be onto us merchants plying our variegated trades.

That was then. This is now:

Nowadays, Third Avenue is missing Han and his gaze—somebody made me an offer I dared not refuse, then took him home to guard his family.

What we are left with is the security we have grown to accept and appreciate—security guards posted 24/7 at the the tall buildings…CAP officers who keep an eye on all suspicious goings-on on the streets…law enforcement officers who are back and forth at random intervals, parking meter and maintenance personnel, firefighters who whiz past, sanitation workers who always receive a smile and a thanks from us, and our fellow merchants and professionals and live-in neighbors. We all comprise the unofficial Han Solo Force.

We take care of each other.

Within this humongous city, inner neighborhoods such as ours still thrive and glisten. Each block is a small town within itself, each resident or proprietor a potentially vigilant and helpful denizen.

When things are smooth, we take each other for granted, when there are crises, we come together to share and assist, when there is the need, we coalesce.

It’s remarkable, come to think of it. And it is something that lends comfort and stability in times of larger, more threatening issues.

We can huddle together on our tiny block, and pretend that all is well that starts well each morning, all is well that ends well each evening.

Thank goodness there is no place like…Here

© 2018 A.D. by Jim Reed

 jim@jimreedbooks.com

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There

Hear Jim’s 3-minute audio podcast:  https://youtu.be/vLEihLpv7es

or read forth…

DECK US ALL WITH HUNKS OF JOLLY

Way back in golden days of yore, we who populate this particular species would make what we still call New Year’s Resolutions.

Some of us still do this. I list the things I want to change in my daily life, then proceed with the difficult task of living up to those aspirations.

It seldom takes much time for me to own up to the horrifying fact that changing myself for the better will require…Effort.

Effort?

Effort!

If I want to decrease my dietary intake and acquire a sleek body, why can’t I just push a button, employ an app or take a pill?

Effort is so…efforty.

Making a New Year’s Resolution always ends in the same dead-end manner. I slowly sink back into the morass of habit and sloth and narcissism and comfort that has always misdirected my Activities of Daily Living.

It is with ease that I resume being whoever it is that I am. My resolve quietly evaporates.

A month from now, I will awaken to the fact that once upon a time, just days ago, I resolved to be a better, healthier, nice person…and thus be adored even more by family and associates.

Now I will have to face the fact that Things are as they are and have been and will be.

As Popeye reminds me, I yam what I yam and that’s what I yam.

Whatever it is that I am today and down all the upcoming days is what I will continue to deal with.

Folks who like me the way I am have no outward complaints.

Folks who wish I would change for the better just throw up their hands and decide whether to accept me or obfuscate the memory of me.

Folks who accept me as the me they will always know will be polite enough to continue humoring me and dealing with me.

How dare I ask for more?

On my best days I am rather jolly and energetic and bedecked with goodwill toward other folks of goodwill. On my bad days, I just stuff it and present my best side to you, because why would I be so selfish as to visit my mood upon you?

Probably the best I can do.

Maybe I should at least try.

Here’s a possible Resolution to experiment with:

I’ll try to understand you as who you are. And if you try to understand me as who I am, things might be hunky-dory for a while.

String enough of those whiles together and you and I can come up with a pretty good life and a bunch of hunky-dories to share.

Happy Every Day of Your Life, Y’all

© 2018 A.D. by Jim Reed

jim@jimreedbooks.com

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Listen to Jim’s 3-minute audio podcast: https://youtu.be/nZZBn7zZBKM

or read his true Christmas story below:

HAVE YOURSELF A MERRY LITTLE CHRISTMAS

One of my favorite true Christmas stories came to me from a friend, the late Belle Stoddard.

Here’s how it goes:

When Gedney Howe was a little boy, his favorite companion was an elderly neighbor everybody simply called, “Frasier.”

Frasier loved Gedney and was often making toys for him or giving him other presents.

One day, Frasier proudly presented Gedney with a beautiful, most unusual type of seashell.

Everyone was impressed, especially the child. Gedney’s grandfather, Chief, recognized the shell as one that could be found only on Edisto Island, a very long way from where they lived in Charleston.

Chief asked, “Why, Frasier, however did you find this here in town?”

Frasier patiently explained that he had not gotten the shell in town. He had found it on the island. Back then, there was little private–and no public–transportation available.

Chief asked whether Frasier had caught a ride.

“No, sir, I walked all the way and back.”

Chief exclaimed, in amazement, “Why that must’ve been fifty miles.”

“Well,” Frasier said, “I caught a ride part way, but the long walk was part of the gift.”

***

This is the kind of story that sticks with me and re-surfaces every Christmas.

I suppose it resonates because my mother always monitored my attitudes about giving and receiving. She made sure we kids understood that the act of giving, the effort and care expended in gift-searching, gift-wrapping, gift-offering, were all part and parcel of the gift itself.

Mom had no tolerance for anyone who complained about the quality or price or brand-name or appropriateness of a gift received.

To this day, each time I am presented a gift, I hesitate before removing the wrapping. I re-imagine Mother’s lesson about gifts, Frasier’s lesson about gifts.

I try to imagine what must have gone through the mind of the giver. I try to appreciate the fact that receiving a gift at all is somewhat miraculous, considering all the people in all the world who are not being remembered and gifted this Christmas.

In the altar of my mind, I hold the unopened gift up to the beaming faces of Santa and Mother and Frasier and everybody else who remembers with love somebody besides themselves on special occasions.

Then, all ceremony aside, I return to earth and tear into the package, looking for the object that represents the gift-giver’s kindness and generosity.

And here’s my gift to you:

Have yourself a merry little Christmas

© 2018 A.D. by Jim Reed

jim@jimreedbooks.com

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Listen to Jim’s 3-minute audio podcast: https://youtu.be/3oCy52E3YA0

or read his tale below…

SNUG ADRIFT

When you are snug abed and attempting to sleep the nearly-longest night of the year…

When you begin to drift raftless through the years and years of holidays gone past, holidays gone dim, holidays occasionally bright and warm and layered with the carnival-design colors and trappings that kids love and cherish and hold their breaths over…

When you are in this special place invisible to all but you yourself…

I hope you will take a moment to remember the best Christmas or holiday you ever ever ever had…allow yourself to slip into it and dream the sweet sweet dreams of a four-year-old who just knows that every kindly fable and each and every sweet tale every adult ever told any kid is absolutely true and verifiable if just for that one moment when the tale is first told.

I hope this remembrance of times past brings a comfortable smile to your lips.

For one sweet moment, I hope you simply defy reality and become a safe, secure and happily sugarplummed child…

And try your best to recall YOU—the once and future real you—and how you once were and how you still are, somewhere deep deep deep down inside

© 2018 A.D. by Jim Reed

jim@jimreedbooks.com

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Listen to Jim’s 3-minute audio podcast:  https://youtu.be/El8ACxbJImY

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THE BLESSING OF SHINY QUARTERS

“Bless your heart,” somebody just pronounced, at the vacated table. The eatery is bustling with noisy diners, and a rather rowdy bunch is waiting for the bussers and servers to clear the surface, or at least redistribute the grease evenly so that the source of subsequent sepsis cannot be traced.

The Bless Your Heart employee is addressing the grand tip of four quarters the previous gluttoneers set adrift on the placemat. She is not amused.

The Bless Your Heart muttering is a form of automatic censure. This longtime denizen of chaotic kitchens and foot-bruising tiled floors and bossy bosses and entitled customers knows how to suppress what she really wants to say until she can grab a smoke next to the dumpster out back. The words will not be as pretty as Bless Your Heart, but they will be honest and direct and heartfelt and delivered in philosophical resignation.

Later in the long shift, at clock out time, the Bless Your Heart woman will stop by Dollar Tree and pick up a few Christmas trinkets to the tune of at least twenty-four quarter tips, wend her way home to her basement apartment that sports a wreath-decked front door and, within, a small musical Christmas Tree with twinkling lights.

She slides the chain lock in place, groans a bit during shoe removal, slips into a so-soft robe, examines the contents of a refrigerator that holds no surprises, retrieves half a quart of eggnog, then sits lengthways on a caressing sofa, takes a sip while regarding the twinkling tree, looks forward to turning the Dollar Tree bag contents into something that will make her lone grandchild smile and laugh and clap her hands in love.

The cares of the day loosen their hold, the memories of childhood Christmases loom sweetly, the echoes of distant family and friends diminish, and for just a moment, just a moment, the world takes time to bless her heart

© 2018 A.D. by Jim Reed

jim@jimreedbooks.com

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I’LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS (IF ONLY IN MY DREAMS)

Join me in my travels, back to yesteryear, when the world was just a dreamy landscape existing solely for the purposes of childhood…

When you believe something so strongly, so unrelentingly, so innocently, that your behavior defies all logic, all convention, all common sense, all cynicism…when you really truly believe something, then you have the gift of purity that can only be defiled by an unkind word a thoughtless gesture or one moment of insensitivity.

Remember when you believed so deeply in Santa Claus that you would confide only in him—in him only—your innermost desires?

Remember when you believed so deeply in the omnipotence and honesty of Santa that not only did you confide in him your wishes, but you at the same time, honoring the magic secret between yourself and the old elf, would not, dared not, could not, tell anyone else your secret—not even your parents?

Remember what it was like to keep such a tightly held secret so pure that, because your parents did not know what you and Santa had discussed, you therefore did not receive on Christmas morn the gift you wanted?

Remember how you never blamed Santa Claus for not bringing the gift you desired, since Santa did, after all, tell you that he’d try his best but couldn’t promise? You looked the other way on behalf of Santa because he was sacred, he was honest, he bore no grudges, he did no evil, he was, you know, Santa Claus, after all.

How long has it been since you believed in something that powerfully? And isn’t it amazing that because you held those beliefs as a child, Santa still has some power over you?

All logic, all evidence aside, you still want to believe in Santa Claus and the idea of Santa Claus…and somewhere deep deep inside you, don’t you think you do still believe in him?

Because if you ever stopped believing in such wonderful ideas, wouldn’t the world do its final bit of perishing in the heart, and wouldn’t the world just be another planet in the technical and mathematical universe, bereft of all soul and heart and sincerity and just full of cold debris and detritus floating around with no particular purpose?

Santa is the glue of the hopeful universe—Santa and his counterparts deep in the beings of children since time began

© 2018 A.D. by Jim Reed

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F6oUDZboDxI&feature=youtu.be

or read his tale below:

I GOT THE PARANOID BLUES OH YEAH

 The beat of the city gets into your head sometimes. And some days it’s hard to control.

You can get so carried away by the multi-tasking immediacy of the city that you begin to suspect everything’s amiss in the normal ebb and flow of things.

It’s like this, you see:

I get into my car and switch on the ignition and this rock ‘n’ roll song is blaring forth. Huh? I don’t voluntarily listen to rock and pretty much remain a dyed-in-the-wool nerdnik. Jazz and classical music dominate, along with specific tunes from my childhood and young adult years.

That’s why, suddenly, I get this creepy feeling:

How did rock ‘n’ roll music get into my car radio speakers?

My brain races:

Did anybody else drive the car lately?

No, nobody would be caught live or dead driving my old rusty trusty station wagon bookmobile. So it couldn’t be that.

Did one of the wandering street people get into the car and sleep there overnight, staying warm and listening through stockinged cap?

Don’t know. It’s a possibility, since the door lock fell out a year ago and therefore I can’t secure the car anyhow.

Hmm…

I haven’t had the car serviced in a long time–usually at car washes and car repair places, employees fulfill their ironclad job description provision that you must immediately change the station in the vehicle you’re working on or washing, else the owner won’t know that you’ve actually been inside doing anything useful.

Uh, maybe the FM switch got hit accidentally and I’m hearing some AM oldies station.

Horror of horrors—somebody ELSE’S music!

Nope, that switch doesn’t work anyhow.

And then, of course, the rock and roll music fades down and the National Public Radio announcer comes on and continues reading news, having employed the music as a kind of meaningless bridge from one story to another.

Now I feel kind of silly and comforted at the same time, but that’s about normal, cause the big city does that kind of thing to you if you let it and don’t I need a vacation about now?

Maybe some nice classical music would calm me down—but then, the station plays such music only at zero-listener times of day.

I’ll have to resort to punching the out-of-fashion audio cassette player PLAY button, then descending into the peaceful and calming sounds of Miles Davis and Ahmad Jamal and Gershwin and Mozart.

Musical nerdnikness settles me down and gives me permission to manage my day in the only way I know how.

I’ll be OK any moment now 

© 2018 A.D. by Jim Reed

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

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