Hear Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast: https://youtu.be/2ZTeRjC3PU8

or read transcript below:

HOW TO THROW A PUNCH

I am lying flat on my back, staring up at off-stage theatrical trappings just out of sight of an audience. This is a theatre and I am an amateur actor, way back in the 1950s.

I lie on the hardwood floor because I am dead, killed by the pen of dramatist Maxwell Anderson.

I perform as well as I can, making sure that the rapt crowd really believes for a suspended moment that I am no longer alive. This means that breathing must be shallow and non-apparent. Eyelids must not flutter. Mouth must be slack. Giggling must not occur.

Being slain in a play is kind of fun. You get to pretend someone else’s life while hiding your actual life from view. And being dead is great. The audience cannot remove its attention from you, even though the living characters continue the scene. Not only do you get lots of attention, but there are no memorized lines to be remembered, to be spoken.

Once you as a character in a play have done your dramatic dying, it’s all over. You can rest backstage later while everybody else continues working. You stick around for curtain call because that’s when the applause will rise in concert with your bow. By the end of the play, audience members will have forgotten what your role is, but they will remember that you fought and died a violent death right in front of them.

But back to the scene. This is one of those performances without curtains. The audience gets to watch the actors leave the stage and the scene-changers re-arrange the props.

At this point in such a production, suspended disbelief breaks through the fourth wall and the audience gasps as the corpse—me—suddenly rises quickly and leaves the stage.

Later on, the play is successfully concluded and we actors get to mingle with instant fans.

One woman singles me out and gushes, “Oh, you were so graceful in that scene.” I just listen because graceful is not a word that has ever been applied to me.

“The way you fell to the floor, how did you manage not to get hurt.?” she does go on. “And suddenly you get up and become alive again!” She furrows her brow and asks intensely, “How do you do that?”

I am too young to come up with sage answers, so I just thank her, sign her program, and continue milling about until cast and crew are ready to pack up and travel to the next town, the next performance, the next dying scene.

When even younger, we playground kids call this play-acting. It is improvised but it is pretty much the same thing I am doing on stages. The difference is, the audience actually believes the story for bit.

In another play, I as a character get to punch another actor. This time, he is the body on the floor for a minute. Of course the punch is fake—you get to learn how to do this in rehearsals and acting classes—but some viewers actually believe it. After this performance, a fan asks me whether I am a trained athlete. I  haven’t the heart to tell her I am a practicing wimp and cannot, in real life, throw a punch or defend myself against one. I just play-act.

Decades later—right now, for instance—I am still haunted by people who believe I am someone I am not and can never be. But I also have these wonderful warm memories of being, just for an instant each time, a jock or an action hero or a resurrected body. And I can go back on my worst days and reminisce about all those people I could be.

And I am really grateful for the fact that no matter how wild and improbable those fictitious folks are, I can still bask in being me. The me who secretly re-visits the other me’s that no-one else can see

©  by Jim Reed 2020 A.D.

WEBSITE

Hear Jim’s Red Clay Diary podcast: http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/tombstonemist.mp3

or read his transcript below:

Way back in time, some several decades ago,

I am grabbing lunch at a nearby diner.

Suddenly I see a lone figure…and I realize that this person

is who I will someday become.

Today, it has all come true. I am now that man.

This is my entry into the Red Clay Diary from those many years ago…

TOMBSTONE MIST (A True Time Travel Tale)

An old, stooped man walks gingerly down the street holding his lunchtime book under his arm and heading for the sandwich place he’s been eating at lo these many years.

     His friends now long dead but not forgotten, he dines alone and peers deeply into his book for signs of life beyond his life, for indications of what will happen once he has become a mist over a tombstone.

     He eats quietly while noisy and harried fellow diners hassle over their individual lives and talk and signify among themselves.

     He turns another page in the musty volume and there lies, flatly pressed and nearly ossified, a long-stemmed green four-leaf clover. A symbol stuck there many decades back by someone who had feelings thoughts aspirations and longings, a person who believed if only for a moment that luck would somehow be mummified and preserved and passed on from reader to reader as long as the book lasted as long as the clover endured.

     He smiles to himself, for no one else is looking at him.

     He briefly picks up the botanical artifact and sniffs it, then carefully places it back onto the page and neatly turns the next page over it, being careful not to fold or harm it.

     He strolls back to his shop, a little less stooped so that nobody but he himself can tell, and he re-enters his quiet place of business and spends the afternoon dreaming of what never could have been and wondering what the young woman who had owned the book and the four-leaf clover had been like and whether she too was a mist over a tombstone awaiting contact with the mist he will become

© 2020 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s Red Clay Diary podcast: 

WINTER BLUNDERLAND

Deep, deep down within the deep, deep South, I find myself wading through the leavings of one year, preparing to encounter a newly-birthed year.

I am tempted to make New Year’s resolutions but I tend to come up with safe ones that in no way challenge me. For instance, I resolve to inhale and exhale repeatedly throughout the year. Or, I plan to floss no more than once a day. And there’s always that one resolution that I make and break within minutes—-lose ten pounds and work out.

Resolution-making being a farce, I resolve not to make any. Instead, I wish to continue the practice of exploring the world through furtive glance and direct gaze.

Here are some things that astound and entertain me:

My quest to find the proper fastener for a piece of split wood takes me to the hardware store, a haven of emotion-deprived semi-conscious barely-mobile texting clerks who don’t know much about hardware but know a lot about googling. I finally locate one of those rare birds—-an old-timer who actually leads me down obscure aisles to search in real non-virtual time for just the right implement.

In this copious den of visionaries both real and imagined, I await my tiny fate.

Everywhere I go today, I find the Leaf Blower Syndrome hard at work. Leaf Blower workers are in the business of transferring trash and particulates to Somewhere Besides Here. Leaf Blower wannabes practice the fine art of referring me to Someone Else or Somewhere Else, secure in the notion that they have earned their income and done their job.

I get it. Lots of folks just transfer and delegate challenges to That Place Over Yonder.

Another New Year’s vision:

I am amused at the fact that I am often polite to robots. I say Thank You to a drive-through ordering device. I say No Thanks to a robocall request. I begin confessing sidebar information to an automated questionnaire that only wants a Yes or a No—-and tells me so. My computer requires passwords that I do not wish to provide, but I must obey in order to get anything at all done today. If I follow procedure and instruction the robotic internet will grant me permission to ply my life, live my day.

In the midst of all this mindless soulless automation, I cherish the real human contacts that occur outside the electronic cyborg world. The tiny moments of revelation or joy.

On the way to the drop-off laundry, I tune in to a jazz radio station. It Ellingtons its way through the car as I pull into the parking lot. The jolly laundry lady opens the passenger door to retrieve my cleanables and laughs quite lustily when she hears the music. She says, “Oh, Jim, you be jammin’!” As I drive away, she smiles and says, “You keep jammin’!”

This makes my morning. This is amusing, warming, symbolic, humane. This makes me smile. This erases all memory of abstract encounters with gadgets and distracted automatons and flaccid clerks.

I drive on to my other errands.

I keep on jammin’

© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast:  https://youtu.be/sOxjLs3-0r8

or read the transcript below:

THE JOYS OF JAYWALKING 

I’m dodging cars and dancing through traffic to get to the north side of University Boulevard.

Whoosh! There goes a red pickup truck, missing me by inches. I feel the warm draft of air rustling my jacket. I come to a halt on the center yellow line, awaiting the opportunity to race the rest of the way across the street. Two more vehicles and I am in the clear.

This is called jaywalking, and it is a tradition, a habit.

The time is 1970. I am young and foolish and full of energy. As opposed to right now, when I find myself not-so-young and just as foolish and minimally energetic.

Being youthful and unaware of consequences, I dash around the campus of the University, plying my trade each day. My job as a Mad Man is to run the school’s news bureau. That means holding press conferences, writing news stories, reducing my bosses’ diatribes to palatable statements, schmoozing the media and in general attempting to display the University in a positive light. Jaywalking is a way to save time and meet appointments. Travelling all the way to the corner and waiting for a favorable traffic light to send me on my way is just a waste of resources.

As years go by, I find myself continuing to be a poor man’s adventurer by jaywalking everywhere I go. I’m playing a video game without having to fret over the trappings of electronics.

As a young 1970′s dude, I also have a life beyond the University. At home I am the victim of fad and fashion. In addition to purchasing trendy ties and classy shoes, I also fall briefly under the spell of exercise promoters. I begin jogging, thus awakening each day with new sorenesses and nifty muscle pains.

Again, back to 1970, here I am another morning on the south side of eighth avenue south, getting ready to speed northward to the Veterans Hospital to interview a visiting scientist. The opportunity comes amid traffic and I begin running to cross before a looming Chevrolet runs me down.

Suddenly, I freeze in place right in the middle of traffic, unable to move. Leg cramps hold me stiff and sore. Traffic has to dodge and swirl about me as I limp to the center line to avoid sudden death.

For the first time in my life my body doesn’t obey my commands.

I finally hobble to safety, humbled by DNA and the physicality of life.

My jaywalking days will continue, but caution and fear will train me to take fewer risks.

Being of unsound mind and unpredictable body, I give up jogging. Ain’t worth the trouble, I tell myself.

Eventually, I abandon my Mad Man career out of sheer conscience, weary of trying to make iffy policies and procedures seem sterling, tired of spinning semi-truths, anxious to begin a new career over which I will have some control.

“The gunman was a loner who lived with his mother,” an oft-heard phrase employed by diffident reporters. I’d like to re-write this to read, “The jaywalker was a loner who lived with his wife.” The story might extend as, “He was known to keep to himself and read books whenever he could.”

I am preparing the news release now, at this moment. I might add, “The jaywalker emerged from his books now and then to mingle with family and friends and customers. Neighbors report that he seemed suspiciously drawn to writing stories and selling books, though no-one could say for sure what else he did in his private moments.”

Jaywalking, exercise-avoidance, doing bookie things like reading and writing…all seem to calm me down and give me purpose.

There could be worse ways to live a solitary life

© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed

WEBSITE

Hear Jim’s podcast: https://jimreedbooks.com/podcast

or read his transcript below:

THE APPLESEED UNIVERSE

I’m sitting on a rock some 500 feet above sea level, making notes.

The time is the 1970s, and this is the road to Mount Palomar observatory, way out west. Far away from my Deep South Alabama roots.

My small notepad with hardware store letterhead is filling up with penciled thoughts and memories and hopes and fears. Right now, nothing bad can happen because each time I glance at the valley below me, a deep sigh of relief issues forth involuntarily.

This is a special moment in time, and I know it will never happen again.

One of my lifelong dreams—to visit the world’s largest optical telescope. I have just done that. All it took was to wish upon some stars.

Now that I’m descending the mountain, I stop to absorb what has just occurred. The observatory is what I thought it would be—a symbol of my never-ending latent desire to know what’s beyond all visible boundaries. To know what’s out there. To find some hope beyond an encapsulated daily existence.

The very earthly presence of this telescope is a sign. A sign that there are others who, like me, want to find things out…just in case humanity has thus far managed to overlook something important.

So what’s the big deal? With bigger telescopes we learn that yet another billion galaxies exist. Does that help me pay the rent, feed the family, comfort the deprived?

Years later, I will find this quote from Martin Luther: ”Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.”

Sounds as if Luther and you and I intuitively know the same thing. We know that whatever is out there or down there or over there is worthy of inspection, just because and despite. Because it’s there. Because it might be there. Because it’s important to know if it’s not there.

Bits of wisdom, carefully accumulated and notated upon a hardware store notepad, are worthy of archiving, because and despite. Despite the forces that suppress. Despite the naysaying cynics. Despite the persistent tendency to deny and avoid.

Apple trees must be planted. Stars must be counted. Attention must be paid.

Just despite. Just because

© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed

WEBSITE

GLOVING UP FOR WINTER CHUCKLES

I am counting down the final days of autumn.

I am indeed approaching the winter of my contentment.

These days, I pay more attention to tiny things, tiny moments, tiny feelings, tiny thoughts…things and moments and feelings and thoughts that may go unnoticed should I forget to record them in my red clay diary.

So, why are these seemingly insignificant bits and pieces so…surprisingly significant?

Why do they matter?

To work through these ponderings, maybe I should name my new car, Eloquent.

That way, neighbors can observe, “There’s Jim, waxing Eloquent again.”

Try and stop me from going on about this. Just a few more words:

The first cold morning of autumn finds me digging through the detritus on the floor of the passenger side of Eloquent. I am searching for matching gloves.

Long ago, I purchased some gardening gloves, on sale, four pairs for two dollars. Who could resist?

With every spell of low outdoor temperatures, I grab the first pair of gloves in sight. One for the right hand, one for the left hand—who cares if their shades of brown don’t match up?

But this particular morning, I can’t for the life of me locate a right-hand glove. After diligence is spent, after time is squandered, I can only come up with four left-hand gloves. Has there been a glove rebellion?  Have the righters escaped?

Hmm. Have you ever tried putting a left-hand glove on your right hand? Two ways to do this, maybe three.

I turn the glove backwards and slide my hand in. A bit clumsily, since the gloves are formed to bend palmward, not the other way around.  Then I try donning the glove properly, but the little finger tends to be smaller than the thumb—ever noticed that?

Maybe I should try turning a glove inside-out. Think this will work? I’ll let you know.

Now…wasn’t that refreshing? Spending two minutes contemplating something so different, so silly and so engrossing that you can’t help but chuckle at the effort?

Well, at least I got a chuckle out of it, even if you didn’t.

An old Russian proverb states, “If you can tickle yourself, you can laugh when you please.”

Here I am, just tickling myself for the sheer fun of it

© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed

WEBSITE

Catch Jim’s 3-minute podcast:  https://youtu.be/jmDqEj9vy14

or read his thoughts below: 

THE FEAST OF REMEMBRANCE ABOUT TO BEGIN

A plastic-gloved cook behind the deli counter teeters beneath the weight of a large shallow metal pan, deposits it into a form-fitting slot, peels away the Saran cover.

Through the glass that separates her from expectant customers, she can be seen wiping clean spillage surrounding the steaming marshmallow-speckled sweet potatoes. She reaches behind to retrieve a large serving spoon, places it nearby.

Let the feast almost begin!

The familiar fragrance beckons my taste buds, excites fond memories that extend backwards through decades piled upon decades.

Yams are mandatory at festive celebrations. Christmas. Thanksgiving. Family get-togethers. Reunions. Post-funeral gatherings. Birthdays. Fourth of July picnics.

In my times long adrift, I remember little things. Things that increase in size with each passing moment.

Sparklers in the hands of merrily lawn-dancing kids. Dumplings. Backyard barbeque. Spongy biscuits made from scratch. Laughing uncles and aunts and cousins and buddies and playmates and family. Fresh-picked-and-hot-buttered corn on the cob. Homemade ice cream with sliced peaches afloat. Tomatoes grown just a few feet away. Kosher pickles and crunchy carrot sticks.

Now the cook behind the deli counter, netted hair, white apron and all, is bringing forth another heated pan, this one brimming with crunchy fried chicken. Serving doesn’t begin for another ten minutes, so waiting becomes almost as intense as all those memories.

Deviled eggs. Babbling babies. Goofy kids filling cups with sweetened iced tea. Salt and pepper shakers awaiting vigorous shakes. Meat loaf soft and warm and beckoning. Paper straws and pacifiers and mushy peas in Gerber’s jars. Gravy. Red sauce. Catsup. Mustard. Hot peppers. Solemn blessings delivered by solemn patriarchs  prior to digging in.

One large pan of crusty corn bread completes the deli spread. And now we diners are about to queue up and prepare ourselves for overstuffing and remembering.

Remembering. Remember how nice remembering can be?

Fleeting remembrance being the most soul-enriching thing that can possibly happen during the next few minutes at this cafeteria

© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed

WEBSITE

Hear Jim’s 4-minute podcast at https://youtu.be/V5T7auhr5OQ

or read his transcript below:

THE TUSCALOOSA SEARS STORE DOUBLE-DIP CAPER

If I close my eyes for a moment or two, I find myself traveling back to days that are long gone but always right here, awaiting reanimation.

This time, I am back in long-ago Tuscaloosa, speeding toward the Sears Roebuck store on 15th Street.

My second-hand—maybe third-hand—wobbly-wheeled bicycle bounces over curbs and along railroad tracks on the way home from the old Victorian home housing the public library. I have exited Shangri-La, book in hand, and am now headed for nirvana.

I screech to a stop at Sears, park the unchained bike (who would bother stealing it?) and head indoors, hoping against hope that the candy counter is open for business.

You won’t remember how the Sears candy counter was structured if you aren’t as old as I. 

It is a free-standing island in the middle of the store, a blocked-off area surrounded on four sides by glass display cases filled with every dentist’s dream: tons of sweet confections.

The ritual is simple. I slowly encircle the rows of candy displays, gazing carefully at each and every item, imagining the taste and texture and heft of all these wonders, until I return to the spot where I began.

Then, invariably, I do the exact thing I’ve done a hundred times before. I approach the counter wherein the double-dipped chocolate covered peanut clusters beckon. 

I wait patiently for the candy counter clerk to notice me, never once removing my eyes from the peanuts, afraid someone will buy them up before I get my shot.

The clerk comes over, stares down at me over the scales, and asks pleasantly, “May I help you?”

I try to contain my excitement. I say in a steady if sometimes crackling voice, “Yes, I’d like some double dipped chocolate covered peanut clusters, please.”

“How much do you want?” she asks. I look at the per-ounce price and quickly count the change in my pockets.

“Uh, two dollars’ worth, please.”

The clerk opens her  side of the case to access the candy, fills an aluminum scoop with just under the correct amount ordered, and places the coated peanuts in a white paper bag atop a shiny scale.

Then, she does a most remarkable thing, a thing few clerks know how to do these days.

She weighs the bag, notes that it needs just a few more peanuts to rise to the two-dollar mark, scoops those up and bags them, folds the top of the sack, collects my money and hands over the goods.

The  other clerk, who is absent today, is the one no-one wants to deal with. She is the clerk who scoops up too many peanuts at once, bags them, then tilts the bag to empty its overloaded contents down to the two-dollar mark.

The first clerk makes me feel I’m getting something extra, the second clerk appears to be taking something away from me.

A life’s lesson I carry with me to this day.

I love going to the old Fife’s Cafeteria these days in downtown Birmingham for precisely the same reason I used to go to Sears. The servers in the line always add a little something to each serving, as if they’re slipping me an extra treat.

Blinking back to the present time, I am now in my bookstore, reminding myself to treat each customer as if there’s something extra in the book bag. I throw in a bookmark, give a modest discount, add a smile and a “hope you have a great day,” hoping that here and there, a customer will “get it” and appreciate these small attentions.

Even if the customer doesn’t notice, I do. I notice. And I go home feeling just a wee bit better about the world.

And, now and then, these days, I search the countryside in vain for some great double dipped chocolate covered peanut clusters served in a sparkling white paper bag

© 2019 A.D. by Jim Reed

WEBSITE