THE INVENTION OF THE TELEPHONE CORD

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A phone is ringing somewhere in the house, but I can’t find it. Sounds a little muffled and a bit other-roomish, so I’m scrounging around, hoping to answer it before I lose the caller.

I feel about under sofa cushions and beneath the armoire and move things around on the coffee table (I don’t drink coffee, so why do I call it that?), scan the foyer, look for lumps in the rugs and comforters, check jacket pockets, and…well, you may  be familiar with the routine. I don’t find the phone, so it’s adrift until I get another call, or until—wait!  It suddenly occurs to me why I bother to own both a cell phone and a wireless landline phone. Two systems exist for the sole purpose of each finding the other.

I go to the car, fetch the phone, call the home number, go back into the house and renew my efforts to trace the ringing to its source.

How much of my time is spent in endeavors such as this each and every week of my life?

Furthermore, why have Liz and I invested in a remarkably dangerous wireless can opener that manages to stop halfway through the procedure for which it exists, leaving can and opener inextricably linked so that hammer and wrench and crowbar and profanity in no way separate them? I eventually give up and toss the wedded can and opener into the trash, all the while wishing I had the excess energy required to ship both back to the factory, fishy smell and all.

And why do I own an automobile whose manufacturer has cleverly installed an intricate and incredibly expensive-to-repair door-security system? All I need is a lock and a key, not some geek-invented$600 gadget that sucks money from my pocket and deposits it into a Detroit bank account should it fail to operate.

And so on.

Solutions are easy to each of these problems: the unlocate-able phone, the non-nourishing can-eating opener and the electronic metal escape-proof collar that is a car door lock. They are easy to fix, just unfashionable and unsightly.

1. I’ll attach a long, permanent rope to each home phone, so that I can mountain-climb horizontally till I locate its receiver.

2. I’ll pull out my Swiss Army Boy Scout pocketknife and stab open my next can of beans.

3. I’ll attach a padlock to the car door, bypassing the electric marvel that seeks to control my time and my life.

There must be some unattractive but wise solution to many of life’s daily pains, and you don’t have to be a redneck to achieve closure.

All you really need is a hairpin, some duct tape, bungee cords, scissors, pliers, screwdriver and a few other Luddite tools to take control once again of a life gone techno

(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

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Bradbury’s Children Get to Live Forever

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I suppose the friendships you establish in childhood and young-adulthood are the most loyal and enduring of all friendships. But sometimes you don’t become aware of this fact till fifty years or so have whizzed past. Even then, friendships, by their very nature, are things you tend to take for granted—which means that when you are reminded that these friendships continue unabated, you appreciate them even more.

Take last Wednesday morning, for instance.

First email I see at the office comes from Pat Bleicher, in Arlington, Virginia. She’s known me since Second Grade and has accepted me, warts and all, in the six decades since then. She is the first to tell me that the best of all possible writers, Ray Bradbury, has died at age 91. She knows that Ray was my mentor and hero and role model and muse, and she sends me a long distance comforting pat.

Next, a phone call from Myra Crawford, who has known me since 1969 and, like a true friend, simply puts up with me to this day…and on this day she tells me she’s sorry that my friend has died. That’s all she has to do to make the friendship last the rest of my life.

Then Big Sister Barbara Partrich sends an email to comfort me. She’s only known me since the day I was born.

Then, I hear from June Cunniff, who met me in the 1970′s; Joan Dawson, who’s known me for decades, and so on.

Donn Albright, Ray’s bibliographer and archivist, drops me a note to say he’s leaving for L.A. immediately—that’s where Ray lived.

By the end of the day, lots of other folks have sent me smiles, since it would be against all things Ray Bradbury stood for to make this a tragic day. I hear from Chervis Isom and Irene Latham and Allen Johnson Jr. and Liz Reed…and then I lose count.

During the week, other customers who love Ray’s works come in to purchase his books and say something about his influence on their lives. The children of Ray Bradbury always come together at moments like this.

Once, when I was listening to Ray field audience questions during a conference in Atlanta, a young fan stood and said, “I know you once wrote that you would live forever. Do you still believe that?”

Ray answered, “Now I know that I will live forever—I have grandchildren!”

And now I know that I will live forever, too—I have friends who remember me at just the right moments in my life.

And, like love, I know that friendships last beyond death, always find a way to thrive, somewhere in time

(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

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Ray Bradbury, the best of all possible authors 1920-2012 A.D.

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“Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there. It doesn’t matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that’s like you after you take your hand away.”

–Ray Bradbury 1920-2012 A.D.

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HOW TO READ A BOOK

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Things people say about books and the written word:

1.

“I don’t read.” (My brother Ronny states this most emphatically. He explains after noting the alarm on my face:  “I don’t read books. It’s boring. I fall asleep.”  He admits that he reads trade publications, newspapers, the Internet, road signs, instructions, legal notices, spread sheets, etc.—but to him, that doesn’t count as reading. Ronny’s not alone…I hear this statement in one form or another each and every week.

2.

“I only read two books in my life—ALL OVER BUT THE SHOUTIN’ and that Bear Bryant book.”  Here in Alabama, it’s acceptable to brag about not reading books, but the manly thing to do is admit that you will read something by Rick Bragg or something about late Alabama football coach Paul “Bear” Bryant. Rick would have a ready-made audience if he’d write a book about Bear Bryant.

3.

“I’ve been meaning to read some good books, but I can’t start till I’m retired and have the time.”  Kind of like saying you’d like to run the four minute mile but won’t get around to it till you’re 65.

4.

“I plan to read MOBY DICK and James Joyce and Marcel Proust and MEIN KAMPF someday.”  These are at the top of a list entitled, “Books and authors everybody means to read.” Word is out that no-one has ever really finished any of them.

And so on and so forth.

My rant to the non-reader:

Failing to read a good book is like ignoring that beautiful, seductive person sitting in the corner of the room yearning to be noticed and cuddled  and appreciated by you and you alone. To a person who seems oblivious to the gorgeous potential of a great book, I say, “What’s the matter with you?”  Well, I want to say that but don’t.

Mark Twain’s comment remains etched in my mind, “A person who doesn’t read has no advantage over a person who can’t read.”

My judgmental self thankfully remains silent, but I just wish I could inspire you to see books the way I see them.

If the aforementioned beautiful, seductive person sitting in the corner of the room yearning to be noticed and cuddled and appreciated were hidden inside a book, wouldn’t you want to turn the pages, experience the  sensual joy and intellectual excitement of true love, real romance? Especially since the affair would be legal and perfectly acceptable?

Nobody will come to take you away just for reading a book to yourself.

Want to try some delightfully adventurous experiences without getting caught?

Are you listening?

Well, if you’re a non-reader, I know you’re not seeing these words.

Guess  those of us who know how to travel to the Moon and back in an hour without anybody’s knowing it, will just have to be the people who are having all the safe fun.

Sorry you missed out

(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

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The Seventy-Cent Four-Minute Shopping Spree

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Historic Downtown Birmingham is my neighborhood, and my little bookstore and museum constitute the center of my personal universe. Most days, I live in the peaceful world by staying out of the way of gypsies, tramps, thieves, wolves and cranky people…but the one thing I can’t seem to avoid is the plethora of City Employee Attitude Provokers. These folks are scattered here and there, and they appear to pounce only when I least expect it…only when I am otherwise having a nice day.

We can take care of the elephants, but the gnats are annoying to the max.

FROM MY RED CLAY DIARY, JUST LAST WEEK:

It’s first thing in the bustling morning of the big city, and I do what I do at least three times a week—pull up to a parking space in front of the town’s only variety store, FAMILY DOLLAR, this time to pick up some trash bags and paper towels for the shop.

I check the winking metal meter and scrounge around for a nickel, which I know will provide six minutes of parking time, just enough for me to do my thing. There’s no nickel, but the dime I find will suffice—what the heck, I can spend twelve minutes looking at the gewgaws and jawing with the employees.

I stick the dime into the winking meter—and it just keeps on winking. Oops!  It’s another broken machine in the traditionally broken-meter ethos of Downtown. Maybe it was dozing instead of blinking…so I stick another dime in the slot. Blinking continues. At this point, I have to decide whether to risk receiving an overtime ticket, or just dash in, hoping to beat the system. Then, I notice a Meter Maid (don’t know what her real title is) who seems new to the beat. She’s checking cars and issuing tickets and she’ll soon be coming my way. I decide to let her know about the meter, so I won’t have to worry about the fine.

“Hi, I notice that this meter isn’t taking my money.”

She snaps, “What did you put in?”

“Two dimes.”

“Well, you have to put in a quarter,” she replies impatiently, which I know not to be the case—just guess she’s new to the beat and trying to seem efficient. I do not mention this fact.

“Hmm…wonder when they started requiring dimes only?” I say, searching my pocket for some quarters.

She doesn’t reply and huffs away to look at another meter.

I insert a quarter into Winky, and, sure enough, it continues to wink. No results.

“Uh, it isn’t taking quarters, either,” I say, since she’s only a few feet away.

She grimaces and snaps, “Well, how do I know you put anything  in the meter? I didn’t see you put it in.”

I’m stunned but still on task—I just want to make my FAMILY DOLLAR purchases and get to the shop before opening time. The only thing I can think to do is seize the moment.

“Well, please witness this for me, I’m about to put another quarter in, but can you watch me this time?”

She freezes, can’t seem to think of any snappy comeback, and stands about two feet away looking at the meter while I place the quarter where it’s supposed to go. It doesn’t work. She WHAPS the side of the meter, hoping that will solve the problem, but the winking continues.

The Meter Maid starts to walk away, turns back for a second, waves her hand dismissively, and says, “You’re OK.” I take that to mean she won’t issue a penalty.

I make my purchase (it only takes four minutes) and am relieved that there is no ticket when I return.

I hop in my time machine and head for work, where I will spend the rest of the day laughing at the incident, marvelling at the unnecessary energy required to have just one tiny justice done on the streets, and hoping to avoid any additional encounters with City Attitude employees, at least for the rest of the day

(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

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PONIES WALK THE STREETS OF BIRMINGHAM

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PONIES WALK THE STREETS OF BIRMINGHAM
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http://jimreedbooks.com/mp3/ponieswalkthestreets.mp3 
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My Red Clay Diary continues to write itself each day. Here are a few things that flashed across my path this week:
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Third Avenue North in front of the shop (Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories) has been barren but fun today (Friday). The Jackie Robinson film “42″ is being shot—in part—in Birmingham.
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I’ve met film crew members who became customers (thank goodness! since regular customers were not allowed on the set)…strutted down a street bereft of traffic (going the wrong way on a one-way street—legally—is akin to walking naked down Madison Avenue)…eaten a hotdog prepared by Rhonda at Goodyear Shoe Hospital (Goodyear has been Downtown since 1919 and is still going strong)…discussed Birmingham and its beauty and style with the movie’s artistic director (these folks work really hard—they’ll be filming all night)…been dismayed by the rude attitude of a city employee (no matter how much the City attempts to bring wonderful things like moviemaking and sports to our area, the message never seems to trickle down to most workers, since they are just plain mannerless and humorless)…been delighted at how out-of-towners love our city (“It’s green, architecturally lovely, friendly, and the site of great eateries.”)…been happy to acquire some great books to add to our shelves (a carload came in today and another is due tomorrow).
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And Saturday night, the entire experience was enhanced one degree by John Marc Green, the director of a new short film (Lippidleggin’), who hosted a screening at Five Points South. It was strange and exhilirating to see myself and fellow actors Whit Russell and David Seale on the big screen. They did a great job! Guess you’ll have to wait till film festival time to see the flick yourself. Stay tuned!
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So…what’s a Red Clay Diarist to do next? The dilemma is always there—each time you see something fun and artistic and inspiring on the streets of the City, there’s often something that doesn’t quite fit with the rosy picture.
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The good news is, the moment you get over your annoyance at those folks who just don’t care about Birmingham, there’s always something great and positive to note and ponder on.
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Thanks goodness for the ponies we find among the haystacks of detritus. They keep us coming back for more
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(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed
http://www.jimreedbooks.com

Those who love are always around

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I can’t seem to rid myself of all the long-ago formerly-living people who have filled my life, fleshed out my life, enriched my life.

You’d think that, once people you know die, you’d be able to put aside your memory of them and get on with meeting new people, having new experiences.

Just doesn’t work that way.

There are many dead folk who continue to influence my life:

Helen Hisey, my 8th grade speech teacher, taught me not to be afraid of speaking my passion in front of audiences. She taught me that it’s OK to slow down and respect the crowd, have faith in their ability to absorb worthwhile information when it is delivered to them with  zeal and humor and love. Helen still guides me, all the way from my starring role in the play Tom Sawyer  (at age 13) to my role as Gabe in the new John Marc Green film Lipidleggin’  (at age 70).  

Sadie Logan, my 2nd grade teacher, brought me up from a very deep and fearful place to a position of importance. She never, ever stopped believing in me and letting me know that I was the most special kid on earth. Fifty years later, I learned that she made virtually every student she’s ever taught feel the same way. We are all the offspring of Sadie Logan.

Jon Charles Palmer and Elmo Riley and Pat Flood were my childhood playmates who just plain accepted me as their friend and never had any reason to harm or dismiss me, no matter how stupid I acted, no matter how far away and out of touch I became. I still hang out with them in memory ever fresh.

Frances Lee McGee Reed, my mother, always laughed at my corny humor, always knew I was special, never let me get away with a lie or an exaggeration or a misdeed, forever believed that I was Number One in her book—even though my brothers and sisters felt the same way. She taught me that the greatest entertainment there is, is people-watching, and I spend most of each public day doing just that, with her invisible presence setting me straight.

James Thomas Reed Jr., my father, taught by quiet example. He was clumsy aloud, but his image as a learned and wise man was powerful without words. He was my earliest example of what a real family man does—earn the living, bring home the pay, sit silently in an easy  chair after supper, reading books great and books seedy and books wise, from Mickey Spillane and Zane Grey and Edgar Rice Burroughs to Eric Hoffer and Harry Truman and Ogden Nash. A most educated man, though never a graduate, he set the example of steadfast tranquility.

Other dead people who look after me:

Pawpaw Burns was my elderly neighbor who showed me that if you really pay close attention to children, you can get through to them by simply noticing, simply respecting them for where they are at the moment. They can always tell.

Adron Herrin and Jack McGee and Brandon McGee and Pat McGee and Annabelle Herrin and Evey Hartley and Effie McGee and Georgia McGee and Gladys McGee and Matty Wooten and John McGee and Dinah Hassell and Elizabeth McGee and many other kinfolk accepted me, warts and all, and treated me with respect and good humor, making me react in horror when anybody tells me they are separated from their kin, cut off from the nurturing care that can come from kindly people who share your blood, if you will only let them.

There are crowds of dead people in my head and in my life and that’s OK.

Even better news: there are scores of living people who have helped me, too, many without even knowing it.

I see living people.

And, because of the wisdoms and comforts and joys left me by the deceased, I am better prepared than most to carefully weed out the unwise and hang only with the people who trust and accept me and make no judgements.

Thanks to those long-ago-passed, I have become a good student of life, and the lives they lived help me manage the bad days well, and enjoy the good days even more

(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

 

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