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“Everything has value, except money.”

–Jonathan Gash

 ”Can you tell me the value of this book?” says the walk-in customer at the shop, carefully removing a moldy bible from its Saran wrappings.

“How much is this worth?” asks the caller, after telling me the date of a book—but failing to mention the title.

“The guy at Mike’s (pawn shop) told me you can tell me what I can get for this,” the customer says, proudly holding up what’s left of an old comic book.

“They told me you buy old newspapers,” says another walk-in, never mentioning who “they” might be.

My days are filled with encounters like these, and each of my replies sounds like a smart-aleck retort. But there is no smart-aleckness intended. I’m just doing my job. My job is to show each person that I’m telling them the truth, that I am providing, free of charge, a reality check, saving them much time and effort and speculation, and hopefully protecting them from unscrupulous traders.

Customer: “What’s this worth?” My reply: “It’s worth a million dollars. But, then, all books are worth a million dollars to me.” (This is the truth.) “If you’d like to know how much it would sell for, the answer is, ‘about a dollar, if you can find a buyer for it.’”

Customer: “Can you tell me the value of this?” My reply: “It’s priceless. So much went into its design, creation and publication…there’s a story behind every item in the shop.” Then I have to break the news, gently, “However, it has no monetary value, so there are no customers waiting to purchase it.”

Of course, once in a long while, something really is special in terms of the “market.” Sometimes, the object of desire is saleable. In those instances, I am happy to inform the object’s owner of what money can be realized from its sale.

This means two things:

One: I disappoint a whole lot of people who, because of their devotion to Antiques Road Show and Pickers and other such shows, enter the shop already believing they are holding a fortune in their hands and have only to learn when they can get paid.

Two: Now and again, I have good tidings of great joy and can help the customer make some money.

The would-be customers are either thrilled or saddened, but they do leave with more information than expected.

Customers react in different ways. Some are not satisfied with my evaluation and continue visiting other dealers to see if anybody has a different tale to tell. Some are relieved to know the facts and can now move on to other concerns in life. Some are convinced that I don’t know what I’m talking about—unfazed by reality, they keep on hoping to find a buyer. They remain filled with hope and expectations. This winning-the-lottery kind of dreaming can be described as the receiving of unearned riches just by wishing real hard.

What’s a book worth? To me, that’s like asking what your child is worth.

I look forward to meeting the next customer who brings in a treasure to peruse. I learn something every time. But I also try to remain level-headed, because I know that not everybody feels the same way I do about found objects. To me, they are precious because of the silent stories they tell. But to many, the objects are just Ebay fodder waiting to be sold to a high bidder.

If I had my way, I’d purchase every relic offered me and place it on display in the world’s largest Museum of Fond Memories. To do that would require lots of money. And, as Jonathan Gash and his fictional character Lovejoy well know, unlimited amounts of money have no value.

It’s the things that have value that I most value

 © Jim Reed 2014 A.D.

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In the foyer of our ancient home stands a very tall red-and-yellow chair—too high for humans to sit on.

This chair is a piece of art created by Liz Reed—lovingly made of wooden stars and wooden crescent moons and wooden legs and wooden spheres, and decorated in simple, primary colors.

The name of this piece of art is SITTING PRETTY HIGH.

When you first see the chair, you’re a bit disoriented—good art often causes such an effect—and you find yourself either dismissing it to gaze at something more immediately understandable, or stopping cold and examining it for its meaning.

Sometimes, there’s a small figure sitting on the edge of this chair at eye level—a glittery soft mermaid, maybe a Pee Wee Herman doll, perhaps Mister Bean’s Teddy—just to demonstrate that dangling is part of the chair’s meaning.

If you dare ask Liz what this object is, she’ll tell you a story that only people who are short of stature will absorb.

You and I don’t know this, but petite people have challenges that are not always apparent. Sure, they see more bellies up close then we do, they have to tiptoe at lecterns, clerks lean over registers to see them, there’s trouble finding fitting garments, and so on.

But what this work of art told me that I did not know, is that petites have to deal with dangling legs. When you and I sit in the average chair, we take for granted that our feet will be planted solidly on the floor. We are accustomed to the stability and security this provides.

Liz and others her size have to compensate for this lack of stability. When you can’t plant your feet, you tend to sway or wobble when you reach out. Disconcerting to say the least.

So, as a tribute to shortness in our society, Liz created a chair that pays respect to dangling limbs. A chair that makes you want to learn more about what it is like to be Liz, a person who seems larger than life in personality, humor, wisdom and talent. She’s spent so many years compensating for and overcoming this gently ignored handicap that nobody notices a thing. She’s just that remarkable woman who can do just about anything she tackles better than you and me.

Watching her function inspires me to plant my own feet firmly in my mind, even when there’s nothing solid to stand on.

As a result of living with Liz, I’m always sitting pretty high

 © Jim Reed 2014 A.D.

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Orange and white stripes make today’s fashion statement.

Or rather, orange and white-striped soiled cloth cut and stitched into loose-fitting outfits make today’s fashion statement.

It’s Christmas Eve morning and I’m driving north on Richard Arrington Boulevard toward the civic center, in the process passing between the Museum of Art on the left and the County Jail on the right. In front of the jail (the “Criminal Justice Center” to you), under the watchful gaze of Branko Medenica’s statue of a fallen warrior, “Centurion,” several inmates are sweeping and cleaning the front plaza.

It is cold, and the workers are focused on their task, as if sheer concentration might stave off the icy bite breezing up the sleeves of their uniforms.

To you and me and the rest of the city, it is merely a quiet, sunny, freezing day. All you and I can feel is how WE feel, so that if we’re in a good mood, the world seems to be filled with goodwill. If we are ill-tempered, the world is grouchy.

Should we briefly spy a handful of prisoners outfitted in orange and white getting some cold sunshine and exercise we can empathize for a moment, sympathize a second, even project ourselves into this outdoor scene. But we can’t BE these folks. We can’t lift their personal burdens. We can’t shorten the icy sunshine sentences they are serving right before our eyes.

All we can do is ruminate, speculate, even appreciate…then move on to our own specific worlds, whatever they contain.

Well, maybe we can do one thing more.

Maybe we can freeze in time this momentary picture—this snapshot of real lives on hold,  framed by an open plaza, overlorded by a humbled statue and spied upon by a passing motorist. Maybe this selfie of one moment in time can be studied and analyzed and pored over and re-imagined by people more proactive and creative than you or me. Maybe down the road some kind of social upheaval will cure the world of having to imprison or punish or enslave or subjugate. Maybe one day there will be no need for memorials, living or inanimate…memorials that rue the day someone was unjustly taken from us.

Maybe one day the only prisons in existence will be those within our own private thoughts and imaginations.

Meanwhile, the least we passersby can do is note the moment, bookmark the scene before us, return to it again and again until we come up with something better than voyeurism

© Jim Reed 2013 A.D.

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It’s just another day in the many lives of Birmingham.

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One great thing about Santa Claus is that his energy is boundless.

During my many decades of living, I’ve observed Santa’s behavior closely–maybe more than most Santa observers. I’ve seen him take a nap now and then, but I’m always energized when he pops alert, wide eyed and ready to get on with the job of Santa-ing his way through life, through many lives.

My good fortune began at birth. My mother turned out to be a Christmas Mother, a woman who made each day of childhood a special occasion for all us five kids. Each day was a special gift to be carefully unwrapped and examined in awe.

Every day was Christmas in our home.

Mother had no patience with impatience. If things were gloomy, she tossed joy into our young faces and made sure we knew the secret of never being bored.

Not until middle age did I decipher her secret, not till then did I put into words the legacy Mother was trying to leave for her family: You’ll never be bored if you’re not being boring.

Another way to express this amazingly simple lesson:

Stop boring everybody and do something worthwhile.

And so on.

This thought is not necessarily earth-shaking, but its simplicity will work its way into your thoughts, your thought processes will massage and re-work it to your own liking, and–if you’re lucky–you’ll find a way to phrase it in words best suited to you.

Santa is never bored, because he’s too busy doing no harm. He’s too busy setting an example. He’s too busy never being bored.

I’m a lucky guy. I have experienced Christmas more than 25,000 times, and each day increases that number.

Mother’s daily example of good behavior, Santa’s daily example of goodness for the sake of goodness…they both live with me and make my best days even better than my previous best days.

Don’t miss Santa. He has much to tell you. And believe me, it won’t be boring

© Jim Reed 2013 A.D.

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SANTA GOES POSTAL…ER, NOT QUITE

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 As I age and turn portly, I seem to look more like Santa Claus each day. Even little kids sometimes look up at me and say with awe, “Are you Santa Claus?”  I answer in various ways, depending upon mood and situation: “No, I’m not Santa, but I know Santa very well.” If the child is interested, I go further, “And right now, I’m making a list and checking it twice,” as I pull out sticky notes and pen.

It’s fun to chat with kids and to see the light in their eyes when they are enjoying our interactions.

The Ol’ Saint Nick mood is my favorite mood, and on my good days I try hard to hold on to it. I’ve found, in my dotage, that I have to cheer myself up when there’s no-one else cheerful at hand.

So, this morning, on the way to the shop, I drop by the Homewood Post Office to post a couple of books to customers far away.

As I enter the building, sporting my best Santa goodwill grin, I check with one woman to see if she’s already ahead of me in line. She smilingly insists I go ahead of her, as if to Santa, attention must be paid .

I walk up to the shorter of two clerks, an unfamiliar one who is wearing blue latex gloves and a deep frown, complete with zero eye contact. As always, in my best old-time announcer cheery voice, I say, “Good morning!” She mumbles. I hand her two small packages and, as I invariably do, I say, “These are media mail, with tracking, please.” She asks the familiar post-9/11 postal questions about whether there is dangerous material in the packages and I say, no, just books.

Then, staring at the scales to the side of her–and still not looking up or at me–she grumpily says, “Now, is there written material or anything else inside?” I say, “Nope, just books–media mail,” I stress.  She says “Are you SURE?”

I’m taken aback but remind myself that today, I am Santa and nothing can dissolve my good cheer.

To reassure her, I say, “I know the rules–been doing this for forty years. Books are media mail.”

She says nothing, weighs the first book, then for some reason slides it across to my side of the counter. I automatically pick it up, thinking she’s handing it back to me. She reaches over and snatches it from me. I raise my eyebrows, grin, and say, “Sorry, I thought you were finished.” She snaps, “No, I’m not finished,” and slaps a self-adhesive label on the package.

The clerk then silently weighs and labels the second package.

I automatically get my Amex card out as I do several times a week at the post office and swipe it across the lighted terminal–prematurely. She says, “It’s not ready!” I say, “Oops!” Then I say, “Is it ready now?” She snaps yes, so I do a successful swipe, then as always–usually for grateful clerks who appreciate being able to view the security number themselves–hold the card up for her to see.

She looks at it and says, “Say the number.”

Suddenly, I am gravely aware that her strange attitude/hostility is not my imagination–I know now that I have an annoying–and annoyed–clerk on my hands. The other clerk, the one with whom I’m used to having pleasant transactions, pretends none of this is happening and says nothing. She seems somewhat fearful.

Without thinking, and because all other clerks for the last twenty years have expressed appreciation for my showing them the card itself close up, I say, “Sorry, I can’t read this (as if I need reading glasses).” My sullen clerk, looking at the line of bemused customers behind me, sighs and takes down the number I’m displaying, as if she’s lost some kind of contest. The charge goes through, she literally tosses the receipt at me and gets ready for the next customer.

I automatically say a cheerful, “Thanks,” even though I’m not sure why.

I turn to go and notice the wide-eyed looks of the witnesses behind me in line.

All I can say with a smile is, “Ah…the spirit of Christmas. Geez!”

I get a laugh.

I have succeeded in not going postal.

I leave peacefully, hoping to have better luck at tossing my good cheer around someplace else today–maybe at my sanctuary, the bookshop at the center of the Universe.

Hope you, too, get through the day without going postal. Come down to the store and we’ll share war stories or just enjoy the peaceful atmosphere of books well worth the time

© Jim Reed 2013 A.D.

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The attractive young customer brings her trio of old books to the counter where I stand half-hidden but ready to accept payment.

She’s purchasing 19th-century editions of Alfred Tennyson and Emily Dickinson and Robert Browning, three literary icons so famous that we’ll never appreciate them for who they actually were.

“Hmmm…Tennyson and Browning and Dickinson together!” I say, “I wonder what their dinner conversation together might be like?” I’m pondering aloud, to the delight of the customer. She smiles and wonders the same thing.

Then, the personalities of the three come to mind and I blurt out a thought, “I think what would happen is, Emily would excuse herself in mid-conversation on the pretense of going to the ladies’ room, then duck out and head for home.”

The young customer agrees. She accepts the packaged books and waves good-bye, perhaps continuing the fantasy of Emily and her two dates and what might have happened next in each of their lives.

My days are often like that. The irony of a bookstore is that authors are thrown together in oddly out-of-time, out-of-logic, outrageous ways, even before they arrive at check-out. Hemingway presses against Hesse, just down the row from Gellhorn…H.G. Wells stands near Virginia Woolf and embarrassingly close to his real-life mistress Rebecca West…Henry Miller is dangerously near Anais Nin, and Arthur Miller is right there near Marilyn Monroe.

Even more provocative is the fact that authors who would probably have disliked each others’ works are forcibly housed in proximity. Mickey Spillane razzes Rex Stout and mocks Georges Simenon…Jack Kerouac and Ken Kesey cozy up but sneer at W.P. Kinsella and Alexander King and Charles Kingsley… Emily Bronte and Pearl Buck try hard to find common ground but fail.

Imagine the mutterings you might hear late at night should these authors’ books come alive and party once they know we’re out of earshot.

Another customer brings Mein Kampf and the New Testament and Bertrand Russell to the counter, and once again my mind runs wild. Jesus would definitely have to come between Adolf and Bertrand to break up the fight, don’t you think?

But wouldn’t you like to be an invisible witness during that conflagration?

Actually, truth be known, I suppose we readers actually are invisible witnesses…spies who listen in on unlikely conversations, chaotic encounters, entertaining and sometimes deadly confrontations.

That’s what reading is all about

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Sometimes I just gotta pause and get something silly off my chest. These book titles are cluttering my mind.

BOOKS I’D WANT TO READ IF ONLY THEY EXISTED

Think and Grow Sluggish

 The Count of Monte Crisco

Apocalypse Week Before Last

The Lord of the Bathtub Rings

The Kindle Thief

The Next to the Last of the Mohicans

Munchies at Tiffany’s

The Whining

The Rise and Fall of the Third Facelift

Madame Bovine

Putin on the Ritz

Love in the Time of Croup

The Canterbury Tweets

Moby Bernie

Catcher in the Gluten Free Rye

Gone with the Breeze

Pride and Aimlessness

As I Lay Scheming

50 Shades of Puce

For Whom the Bull Toils

Mein Kampfire

Withering Heights

Fahrenheit 17 1/2

The Electric Band-Aid Ouchy Test

Abraham Lincoln’s Aerobics Class

The Outsiders Go Shopping

In Lukewarm Blood

Harry Potter and the Hangnail of Death

Twelve Years a Slave to Fashion

The Full Monty Python

© 2013 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Help me find the sad and the glad this Thanksgiving.

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I’ve spent way too much of my life obeying rules that don’t exist.

Where in the world does this trait come from?

For instance, I used to think that it was against the law to remove new fabric tags from mattresses and pillows. But then I realized that nobody could tell me what law it is that forbids these removals, so now they are removed at will.

Way back when, I decided to go to a Halloween party dressed as a priest (frocked as a priest?), so I went to the priest boutique—the store that sells such things as clerical garb. I hesitated at the front door, suddenly imagining that someone inside might ask for my credentials, just to make sure I was qualified and didn’t break the priest-only rules. Of course, the clerks didn’t even look me in the eye, and I walked out having purchased a collarless invisible-buttoned black shirt with the little white plastic doodad that turns you into a man of the cloth.

Once, when I realized that Whopper Juniors at Burger King looked more appetizing than their bloated  ”adult” burgers, I started to order one, then hesitated, thinking, “Oh, no, they’ll ask me if I’m young enough to order a Whopper Junior. I’ll be busted for breaking the kidburger rules.” Naturally, I passed that hurdle. Burger King folks could not care less who orders what, so long as it is paid for.

When I was a kid, movie theaters sold admissions and didn’t keep score. You could sit and watch a film as many times as you pleased, since owners were used to being daycare centers for adults and kids—much as libraries have assumed that role these days. In middle age, I watched a movie in Homewood and decided to stay to see the opening scene again. An usher calmly reminded me that the rules were different now—nowadays you have to buy a ticket for each and every showing. Slightly embarrassing to say the least.

Why do I make up rules, and why do I not know the real rules?

Many business establishments have double-door entrances. Why double doors, since there is always one door locked? It’s a contest to see which door is the locked one. I’m correct 50% of the time. What are double doors for, anyhow? The only other two-door entrances that come to mind are those swinging saloon doors, both of which always work in the movies. Cowboy movies have door rules that are different from real life door rules.

Why?

And why is it that I’m the only person around who follows the rule about opening the door for people, as a courtesy? Folks used to thank me profusely, but these days they don’t even notice that I’m doing it—they are in texting land or cellphone world and apparently think that doors just follow the law of Moses, the one about magically parting the doorway so that you don’t have to break pace.

Speaking of westerns, wouldn’t it be fun to watch two gunmen doing a fast-draw shoot-out while tweeting or texting? Results would be inconclusive, I suppose. Those guys followed rules, too—don’t draw until the count of three. Who made that one up? Being a born chicken, I would shoot, then count to three.

Staying confused about the rules of day to day living is entertaining though annoying. It’s something to whine about, but you should be grateful that I’m not pestering you about really big, serious problems. Social media allow you to mouth off about things of no importance to anyone else, and get away with it. I suppose we should be thankful for big favors

© 2013 A.D. by Jim Reed

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AARP? ARRGHH!

I have tried for many decades to figure out why people retire.

Yep, for years I thought to myself intermittently, “Why would anybody want to retire?”

I equated retirement with indolence, with bored married couples dining at the local cafeteria each night, night after night. And rarely speaking a word to each other.

Retirement meant watching too much TV and grimacing all the while, taking the garbage out a bit too often, and becoming obsessed with small patches of grass that must be trimmed at all cost. I felt that retirement would mean the end of all meaningful brain activity. Ossification would set in and I would find myself slowly becoming something horrible, like a far-right-winger or a Neighborhood Watch captain, walking around the neighborhood in khaki shorts and flip-flops and giving neighbors with noisy dogs the evil eye.

I figured I would wind up watching the ‘hood all the time, waiting for something to complain about, gazing much too much at the Weather Channel and announcing loudly to all who would eventually not listen, the latest weather possibilities, “They say we might get snow next week!”

I pictured retired people as people who had given up the good fight, stopped believing they could change the world, resigned themselves to spending way too much time spoiling grand kids and in so doing, irritating the parents of grand kids. I vowed I would never join AARP. I said I would never wear a bad toupee or say, “The kids these days!”

I even pictured retirees as people who not only had stopped making love but who had ceased even having sex.

My biggest fear was that I would be treated the same way I had inadvertently treated older people much of my younger life. That pudgy little woman with the cane could not have anything interesting to talk about. She had never been young and beautiful and full of dreamy dreams. That comb-over guy wearing the 30-year-old sports jacket had not had
anything new or interesting to say since he bought that sport coat. Those folks who needed assistance in getting over the obstacles we all placed in their way—stairs, curbs, restaurant menus with small print, poorly lit movie aisles—those folks just got in the way sometimes.

I would never be like them! I would take care of myself and make sure I did not get bald or dumpy or out of shape.

Well, you know the end of this story, and you know, in the recesses of your mind, that you will reach the end of this story just like I have.

I have become a Senior Citizen, and if you are lucky (?), you will, too.

Now, I can accept all the hilarious little bad jokes that nature has played on me, my mind, and my body. What I have not been able to adjust to, until recently, is the giving up of projects that might have changed the world.

I have learned that you can do wonderful things as a volunteer, but I have also learned that it is difficult to get other volunteers to do things your way. My rant about this is oft-repeated:

“Volunteers! You cannot discipline them. You cannot make them do anything. But once in a while, they will decide to do something good and you will have to remember to be grateful for what they do. You also have to remember to thank them.”

This should be displayed on plaques in every volunteer organization in the country.

I have learned that I no longer have to strut or try to look younger than I am, because it is perfectly obvious to everybody that I have achieved geezer status. Some of that is kind of nice. True, most younger people look right through me, as if I could not possibly be important to their lives. But some of them, a few, actually realize that I do know stuff and can help them think through things. Those who take the time seem delighted with my company, and I draw hope and ideas and energy from being with them. Something else: I no longer shun older people, because I know  that, to them, I am the younger person and can learn something from their added weathering. In turn, they seem to get a kick out of my attentiveness.

So, I guess I have obtained some good from becoming elderly.

There are not too many advantages to getting on up there in years, but there are some nice perks:

1. I am no longer expected to lift heavy objects or fix things or help people move. I do not get dirty looks when I sit down before everybody else. I even feel un-self-conscious enough to quietly excuse myself and go read a book.

2. I can see things in cycles now—something you cannot do when you are young. When you are young and having an anxiety attack, you just know the world is coming to an end and that you will not last the day. But when you are my age and are having your 421st anxiety attack (yes, you will never stop having them!), you suddenly say to yourself, “Hey, I have survived 420 of these…click!…I think I just might survive this one, too!”

3. When you are my age you are no longer suspected of having naughty thoughts, so this frees you up to have all the naughty thoughts you want, and not feel guilty about it.

4. As an S-word Citizen, I can enjoy the impatience and impertinence of younger drivers. It is fun to take my time and watch somebody else’s blood pressure go up for a change. The more that young whippersnapper honks his horn at me, the slower I am going to drive. And he will blame it on my age! Heh, heh, heh.

5. I can also pretend to forget stuff in order to get out of doing things I do not want to do. They think it is because my mind is going. Little do they know that my mind went a long time ago and I am just having fun now.

I am officially a happy old geezer. But I still do not understand why people retire

© 2013 A.D. by Jim Reed

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