BIG SHUNNARAH IS WATCHING YOU

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Hear Jim on Youtube: https://youtu.be/x_vkuJeV8LM

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Life, actually…

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BIG SHUNNARAH IS WATCHING YOU

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“How’s your mom’n’em?” asks Dora, as she fills a fresh-licked white plastic bag with thrift store wearables. Her register is asking for  payment of $15.45.

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Alice, her friend on the other side of Dora’s counter, is riffling through a large slouchy handbag in search of wallet and workable credit card. As she fishes she smiles and provides Dora with a truncated genealogy of life-up-to-now family facts.

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I’m the eavesdropper in line just behind Alice. I take my time and listen and observe. This is more fun than anything on the internet or the tube.

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I’ve dropped a few eaves in my time.

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Alice and Dora have known each other a long while, but at this moment one is customer, the other is accepter of payment. Family ties run through the conversation as smoothly as Jergen’s Lotion salves a rough spot. A few phrases transform updates into small endearing stories.

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I am relieved to learn that all is well with mom’n’em and, with an occasional sidebar about kin being arrested or taken ill, life is proceeding with surprise and predictability.

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Dora and Alice finish their exchange and part ways with smiles and warmth and mutual “Y’all come to see us!” declarations.

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I’m next up. I place selected books on the counter and Dora begins scanning prices into a keyboarded device, pausing each time the machine fails to do its job, mumbling while she has to hand-enter rows of numbers. She pulls a fresh plastic bag from its rack, licks her fingers to make opening the bag easier, slaps the bag by its body-shirt handles, and balloons it big enough to drop the books in.

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“You need to press this button and sign this screen with your finger and then sign this paper receipt in order to please the pencil-pusher who set up this redundant and time-wasting system,” she says. Only, she doesn’t say anything of the kind—she just thinks this with a bored frown. She and I silently agree that the only way to get through the day at the counter is to take breaks, grab lunch, gossip with other employees, and occasionally catch up on friends and relatives and strangers who pass by.

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As I drive away from the store and head back to my village, I glance here and there, amazed at the gigantic billboards mostly filled with images of a smiling attorney screaming “CALL ME ALABAMA.” No commas needed.

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What would my normal day be like if I didn’t see and hear a dozen BIG SHUNNARAH IS WATCHING YOU messages? What would my day be like if I couldn’t catch up on mom’n’em and all the real, living adventures that await friendly inquiry?

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Knowing about mom’n’em enriches my time and makes me want to call distant family and catch up. Big Shunnarah doesn’t seem to matter at all

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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

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NO-SEE-UMS AND DUM DUMS LIGHT THE WAY

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Life, actually…
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NO-SEE-UMS AND DUM DUMS LIGHT THE WAY
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No-see-ums and Dum Dums light my path through another day of fun and perplexity at the bookshop.
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On the way to bookdom I encounter enough mysteries to last a week. Once within the store visitors offer me gifts they don’t even know they are offering.
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I accept these gifts with grace and understanding, even when I don’t quite understand.
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It’s all in a day’s time…and there is never enough time to appreciate all that I see.
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A focused no-nonsense customer breezes past me and heads for his special section of the shop. He knows what he thinks he wants to find but instead comes across irresistible treasures that distract and delight.
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A homeless regular greets me loudly and graciously while siphoning off a handful of Dum Dums I keep in a basket—one to a customer is a rule for other people, not him. It’s OK. Every year or two he saves up enough to buy a book.
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Another customer brags and browses jovially yet comes short of actually purchasing anything. He always promises to pick up some titles on hold but never quite gets around to it. When he’s not flaunting, he’s flouting or flailing. It’s all good—he does add energy and humor to the morning.
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A whimpering simpering child acts out his confusions while batting down all no-see-ums cautions from his hovering mom. Once she is down the aisle, he calms down and actually responds to my suggestions for books he might like. Mustn’t let mom know he’s enjoying himself.
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Another customer summons the courage to ask for my bookly opinion about what she should read next. Before answering I ask what she enjoys most, what her favorite childhood books were, what kinds of stories take her away to better times, or at least more unknown times. She returns to the stacks.
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Two energetic visitors ask for quarters with which to feed the vending machines wherein lie prizes and surprises. They giggle and appreciate and anticipate.
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The USPS letter carrier offers mail and good will each time she visits. I miss her when she’s late or absent.
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Customers from far away places troll the shelves in awe. I find a way to communicate with them, my goal always the same—make certain they leave with memories of a pleasant and friendly encounter within a pleasant and friendly village. Whatever I can offer them is meant to overrule preconceived notions about us Down Southers. We are generally a friendly group.
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“What’s this APP thing the parking meters want?” asks a frustrated customer. He’s not up to date on the intricacies of anything newer than a flip phone. I give him lots of quarters to override the Big Bro’ parking overlords.
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“Books! I have books for you!” This panting visitor is lugging a misshapen box of volumes. I accept the gift kindly, sight unseen. No book is ever thrown away. I offer the donor a bottle of cool water.
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“You have books about Helen Keller and Doctor King?” This is an easily-fulfilled request. We have lots. This is one happy customer.
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Chris, the next-door security director, is having a lively sidewalk conversation with a friendly passerby. I can hear his energy through the closed doors.
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Firefighters whiz by the shop on their way to taking care of people in need, their sirens reminding us that help is always nearby.
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A phone caller wants to know if we carry books by GO-eeth. He needs one for his son’s college class. I check on today’s supply of Geothe and assure him we are well stocked. He’ll be in later.
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Rhandrae  from the shoe repair place across the street calls to see if I’d like some cookies she’s brought to work. How can I turn her down? Another neighbor looking out for another neighbor.
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When things quieten down I begin the daily task of cleaning, pricing, sorting, cataloging and shelving this day’s trove of paginated wonders.
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Haven’t done anything this fun since yesterday and the day before. And tomorrow will be even better
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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.
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DEEP COOLING THOUGHTS DOWN SOUTH AT NINETY DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

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Life, actually…

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DEEP COOLING THOUGHTS DOWN SOUTH

AT NINETY DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

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Each summer in my Down South village, it gets so hot that all I can do is think back…recall icy cold days, and try to lower the weighted temperature.

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Here’s a ten-year-old winter memory from the pages of my tattered and true Red Clay Diary. Hope it cools your brow:

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There are more amazements on the frozen streets of Birmingham than are dreamt of in all philosophies.

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The vampire wind tries to nip a pedestrian beneath her scarf as she scurries to work. She tries valiantly to clutch the cloth to her throat. She successfully keeps the bite away, thus forcing the carnivore air to search elsewhere for her skin. She thinks: I have to face this again on the way home tonight.

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Ignoring the temperature and all parental precautions, a group of seventh graders and eighth graders invades the bookshop, writing students from the Alabama School of Fine Arts who hope to pick up new ideas in well-thumbed pages. They warm their hands and minds with ideas burning inside each volume. They think: This is great, but what’s to eat?

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I visit for an hour with students at Birmingham-Southern College, spreading the gospel of reading and writing and thinking outside the hum of the hive. They sit around the Arthurian table to see what I have to say, or to see what the teacher wants them to hear me say. Perhaps my most attentive listener is the teacher. She thinks: I wish class could be this much fun every day. Sigh.

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The college room walls are lined with books locked inside sturdy cabinets, longing to join their free-ranging comrades but resigned to the concept of Waiting. Waiting for someone to unlock the shelves and touch them once more. They think: I have all this wisdom. Wish I could share it.

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Back at the shop, an Atlanta bookdealer braves the weather to stroll and examine my paginated orphans, to see what’s in the store…to see what’s in store. He thinks: How can I make some money off all this stuff I’m purchasing?

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Outside the shop, the coldness becomes mundane. We all talk about it too much and want to go on to some other subject.

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But the vampire wind will remind us who’s really in charge, when we brave the sidewalks once more, with only large warm books hugged tight against the chest to keep the heart warm and the mind afire

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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

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NEXT UP! DANCING AROUND THOSE UNSOLICITED OPINIONS

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 Listen on youtube:https://youtu.be/V4zV9jPR1-U or read below:
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Life, actually…

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NEXT UP! DANCING AROUND THOSE UNSOLICITED OPINIONS

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“Duck!” is what I want to shout whenever somebody gets close to my face and begins to recite THAT STORY THEY KEEP TELLING.

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“Duck!” is my knee-jerk reaction when THAT STORY THEY KEEP TELLING begins to roll out and fill all available space.

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“Stop and really listen!” is my contrarian shout that immediately follows the duck! volley.

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Yes, you guessed it—my life overfloweth with characters like myself, people who have deeply-felt opinions—opinions with no place to go. Having no place to go with these long-held rants, many THAT STORY THEY KEEP TELLING folks pick on me. I am easy pickings.

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After all, I am a dutiful prisoner of my own workplace, a stalwart of my family, a casual victim of wherever I am at the moment.

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Getting trapped and encapsulated by one of these THAT STORY THEY KEEP TELLING people is something I must endure, something I am slowly beginning to appreciate.

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Being mostly an internal and private person guarantees that my basic instinct is to avoid at all cost being cornered by the rants and rages of strangers.

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But here in this lovely Down South village I am learning to stop and listen, pause and ponder, observe and ruminate…whenever a THAT STORY denizen needs to mouth off and show off and plead for attention.

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I am actually getting better at listening.

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Are you also a deflector of THAT STORY people? Maybe you know what I’m talking about.

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My entire life has been spent defending my small solitude of a mind, defending it against encroachment by those who would like to move in and take up space. Perhaps I have been unfair to many of these rant-tellers. Maybe not all of them want to storm my defenses and take over…maybe some of them simply wish to vent, then move on.

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As I learn to listen more, I make fewer wisecracks—wisecracks being my main weapon against alien or forbidden ideas that these ranters wish to implant. Wisecracks have protected me from many attacks by bullies and shamers and predators and needier-than-thou warriors.

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But wisecracks also can keep me so isolated that I miss the special gifts that some folks unknowingly offer. When I stop and examine what’s really happening during one of these storytelling episodes, I find that there is a kind of wisdom and fellow-human-being confidentiality that can be helpful or comforting.

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When I stop and lay down my armor and my weapons—in the form of defensiveness or resistance or smart-aleck remarks or fake emergencies—I can actually appreciate what is going on.

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Of course, the ranters have their own limitations. Some are beyond help, having long ago given up being taken seriously. Some have stopped looking for cues as to whether they are being heard.

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But now and then, now and then, one of those THAT STORY THEY KEEP TELLING people will pause and, taking my signal, take a deep breath at the same time I am taking a deep breath. Now and then, now and then, I and thou will leap from the swirling habits we’ve established…and actually hear each other.

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When that leap of recognition occurs, even if temporary, great understanding and humanity can rear themselves and actual real-life conversation can commence.

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This is something to strive for. I need this kind of progress now and then.

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I need to disarm. I need to peek into the abyss. Just to see whether a really good day is about to jump out and happy-fy me despite myself

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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

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WHICH FIRST? BOOK OR EGG?

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Life, actually…

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WHICH FIRST? BOOK OR EGG?

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Way back when, so many years ago I can’t count, I am a nine-year-old peering at a vending machine, sweaty-palmed nickel in hand, wondering…

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I wonder what will pop out of that machine once the coin drops. What Cracker Jack-type prize will next grace the innards of the battered cigar box I keep under the bed at home.

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Everything is nine-year-old magical in my mind. Everything glistens with mystery and meaning.

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The vending machine is Pandora’s Box to me, only I choose to make Pandora a guardian of good and fun instead of a portender of pestilence and horror. As an avid reader I have already experienced the thrill of changing lore of old to suit my own imaginary world.

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Whatever is in that machine will cause my imagination to take off and build a story to comfort me in the dead of night.

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The old cigar box patiently awaits the arrival of Pandora Boy—me. Whatever lovely memory I add to its contents will improve and enrich my short time on this small planet.

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Now, the time is Today. At the bookstore, Allie is searching the front display table for one elusive old book that will be shipped to one elusive old customer, once found.

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“What’s this?” she asks, holding open a hollowed-out book, a book containing no words. A book someone has carefully crafted to look normal to the casual browser. A book intended to hide some treasure.

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I explain that I have found hollowed-out books now and then for many years—some filled with trinkets and treasures, some hiding love letters, some securing diaries, some waiting to be filled with secrets.

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These time capsules almost always are nondescript, adding to their invisibility. If a book’s cover and title instantly bore you, you are not apt to open it for further examination. The hidden secrets remain hidden secrets. Think what you may have missed.

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Allie reverently closes the hollow book and makes it invisible again, waiting for someone—maybe Pandora Boy—to hide something really special within.

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I walk to the front of the shop and stand before the old vending machines filled with invisible delights.

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Whenever anyone—a child of fifty or a child of five—places two quarters into the metallic slots, turns the handle to dispense the surprises, a colorful plastic egg pops out. Each egg contains various miscellaneous objects designed to mystify or delight or puzzle the five to fifty child.

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Each egg brings a nine-year-old smile back to my face and jolts me into the Good Pandora parts of life that are always worth exploring

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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

THE GIRL IN THE FOREVER SMOKING BUBBLE

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Listen to Jim’s podcast: https://youtu.be/ZlksMgB8kQ4
or enjoy his written words, below:
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Life, actually…
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THE GIRL IN THE FOREVER SMOKING BUBBLE
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She takes her smoking breaks outdoors, right here in front of her office building, right next to the old bookshop.
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Puffing away on a cigarette or two, she stares at third avenue north and occasionally speaks to passersby, but mainly she speaks only when spoken to.
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On rainy days she actually retreats to the protection of the bookshop entrance, particularly during CLOSED hours.
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What does she look like, this inhaling exhaling denizen of the lawyered structure next to the old bookshop?
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I catch glimpses of her, since I don’t wish to impose on her hazy bubble, her safe space.
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But I do know what she looks like because we often exchange pleasantries.
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Here’s what I know—and it is more than I need to know:
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She is young, attractive, well dressed, neatly dressed, and apologetically smiling.
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What makes her imprint upon my own private bubble is the fact that she is pregnant with twins.
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This healthy-appearing pleasant smoker carries her twins within her protective cone of loneness, and all the things I wish to say to her are things that I will never say to her because I have some understanding of the preciousness of privacy and loneness.
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What do I want to say if only it would make any difference at all?
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Well, I’d like to plead with her about the smoking.
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“Please don’t smoke. Your twins will be affected. How you spend your later years will be affected. How you wind up will be affected.”
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Maybe something like that is what I would say to the smoking childbearer who speaks to me in the third avenue doorway.
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But what I actually say to her is something like, “How are you today?” She smiles and says Fine.
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One day I am so bold as to ask her about her pregnancy, Thankfully, she is not offended at all and shares her protected feelings. That’s when I find out about the impending twins. That’s when I become aware that the possible negative effects of smoking pregnant are in no way among her thoughts. She simply mentions how she feels today—good or uncomfortable, as the case may be.
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I leave her to her life, as she leaves me to my life.
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After all, there are things I’d rather she did not ask me, too.
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If all goes well, someday she will be delivered of healthy twins and will reappear in the doorway somewhat slimmer, with stories to tell about her babies and how they are faring and how she is managing. And she will light her second cigarette.
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Good bubbles make good neighbors
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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

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THE MAN WHO COULD PREDICT THE PAST

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Life, actually…

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THE MAN WHO COULD PREDICT THE PAST

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I live mostly in the past.

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Why, you ask, do I make such a statement?

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For one thing, back here in the Past, I can re-enact all things troublesome and make them somewhat more bearable. Or at least re-sort them into less mysterious configurations.

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What I shoulda done. What I shoulda said. What if I had turned this way instead of that way, at just the right moment?

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What really happened that time back then, instead of what I supposed was happening?

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Great questions to ask myself when my brain is in between heavy copings and lazy meanderings.

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Anyhow, come join me in re-organizing the past. Seeing life from different angles can be useful. Or at least hilarious.

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Let’s suppose I could actually alter the past, thus altering the future? Would I do anything significant, or would I just pick on the little things?

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I wave my magic wand and proclaim:

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NATIONAL NO HONKING DAY. Lay that heavy hand down and listen to the quiet.

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NATIONAL FILL YOUR LUNCH PLATE UP SOLELY WITH FOODS YOU DETEST DAY. You might surprise yourself by eating from a different perspective. I learned to love spinach when I last did this.
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NATIONAL TRIM THAT THREE-INCH HAIR GROWING OUT OF YOUR EAR DAY. There’s always something I missed. Catching up can be soul-relaxing.
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 NATIONAL THANK SOMEONE YOU WOULD NEVER THINK TO THANK DAY. Yes, this is painful. But I feel so much better when I’m able to accomplish this.
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NATIONAL SELF ESTEEM ADJUSTMENT DAY. Swipe away those negatories and concentrate on what’s good, no matter how small.
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SPEND EXTRA QUALITY TIME WITH YOUR MOST OBNOXIOUS CUSTOMER OR NEIGHBOR DAY. This is hard but surprisingly revitalizing.
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NO STEPPING ON ANTS DAY. Give them a day off!
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NO RANTING DAY. If my idea of bliss is mouthing off at everything I disapprove of, this could be the day I change course and reduce coarseness.
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And so on. You can make your own list.
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Who knows? Something good could come from this
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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.
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WEARING PEE-WEE’S PLAY SUIT

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Catch Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast: https://youtu.be/UtFPkIHpt9I

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Life, actually…

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 WEARING PEE-WEE’S PLAY SUIT

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 After many decades of living, loving and getting by, I’ve come to the conclusion that everybody feels cool at least once in a lifetime–maybe even a few times in a lifetime for the lucky ones.

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Coolness is a state of mind, which means that you may feel cool to yourself, but you have no idea how you might look ridiculous–uncool–to others.

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There’s the time in my life when I owned and wore an exact replica of the Pee-wee Herman suit–you know, his trademark outfit–which consisted of this form-fitting neatly pressed narrow-lapeled suit complete with white dress shirt and bow tie. In my case, I wore the obligatory  Mad Men thin necktie. Also, in my case, I wore heavy black wing-tip dress shoes instead of Pee-wee’s white loafers. But in all other respects, I looked like Pee-wee Herman. I was skinny as a rail, still had my hair, wore horn-rimmed glasses, and thought the coolest thing in the world was my then-fashionable suit.

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You might have guessed by now a couple of things:

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1. This was back in the 1960′s, long before Paul Reubens had ever conceived of Pee-wee and his suit, so in essence, Pee-wee wore an exact duplicate of my suit, rather than the other way around.

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2. This was the era of Mad Men, when we all smoked and drank and caroused too much, and had miles to go before we became enlightened about the wrongness of smoking and drinking and carousing too much.

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Anyhow, I worked as an on-air personality at Tuscaloosa’s fledgling television station, then known as Channel 33. I would snazz up in that suit, grab my loaded, hand-wound 16-millimeter movie camera, and go off to cover some news event, hoping to get back to the station in time to have Curtis Lake develop and edit the film while I wrote the story to go with it. Then, I’d get ready to host the daily live Noon broadcast interview show, called “This is the Show that Starts at Noon,” which remained on the air for four years.

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Back in those days, you could LOOK cool while out in public being recognized as a TV personality, but there was no way to BE cool, once you got back to the station. At the station, you were just another employee, trying to keep your job, stay out of the way of the more hostile pointy-haired folks, and just having fun doing your job. It is thus with virtually all jobs: as long as you can concentrate on and perform the tasks you love, you’re happy. But office politics and office politicos will be working full-time trying to spoil it for you. Denial is your only weapon.

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Anyhow, for a few minutes at a time during those years at Channel 33, I could overcome my insecurities and self-doubts, don the Pee-wee suit, leave the station to cover a story or host a panel or judge a beauty contest or make a personal appearance, and just plain forget the other facts of life I had to put up with.

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The Pee-wee suit was my magic time machine, my way to beam up and away each time conflict threatened to douse me. It made me feel like somebody, even though I wasn’t. It made me feel stylish, even though I wasn’t. It gave me a few chuckles many years later, when I saw Pee-wee himself wearing that outfit and feeling like a million dollars.

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Wonder if Pee-wee found my suit at a thrift store

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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

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(Thank you, Paul Reubens, for all the joy you brought us.)

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NOVELS DOODLED ON STICKY NOTES

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Life, actually…

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NOVELS DOODLED ON STICKY NOTES

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Some people doodle their thoughts, then wad and toss them. Being a keeper of things, I tend to save my own doodles for later examination.

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Here are four stories I have doodled and archived on sticky notes.

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You are now my sticky-note judge and critic.

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STICKY NOVEL NUMBER ONE:

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PREMEDITATION

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Molly was curious to know why her dreaded teacher, Mrs. Philbin—the one who always looked like she’d just bitten into a lemon and chased it with a green persimmon—was so cruel to her.

What makes a teacher act like this? she pondered.

Molly couldn’t get Mrs. Philbin’s behavior out of her mind, so she made one covert and desperate attempt to spy on the cruel teacher. Just one more time, to see whether she had misjudged her, to see if she had any redeeming qualities.

One night, peeking into the teacher’s kitchen window, Molly observed Mrs. Philbin biting into a lemon and holding ready a green persimmon.

THE END

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STICKY NOVEL NUMBER TWO:

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SCRUNCH

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“This is the life,” he said to himself, as the sunny beach sand scrunched between his toes.

“It doesn’t get any better than this.”

He was right.

For the next fifty years, nothing got any better.

THE END

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STICKY NOVEL NUMBER THREE:

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GIDDYUP

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Back in the before times, he had driven a horse and buggy for thirty years before finally purchasing a Model-T automobile.

One day, the brakes failed.

As his Model-T hurtled toward a fence, he shouted, WHOA!”

THE END

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FOURTH AND FINAL STICKY NOVEL:

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SWEETNESS AND LIGHT

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The day after the Liberators brought Democracy to the people, the people were heard to cry out, “Hey, why isn’t everything perfect now? You and your Democracy!”

Some of the people yearned for a powerful yet benevolent leader who would provide for them, Democracy or no Democracy.

Since they had not experienced Democracy, they did not miss it.

THE END

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You are now free to write your own one-page sticky novel.

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Be not afraid

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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

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THUNDERING ANTS, SCURRYING GIANTS

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Listen to Jim on Youtube: https://youtu.be/fV9U72LhsvI

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Life, actually…

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THUNDERING ANTS, SCURRYING GIANTS

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I am stooping at eye-level beside our kitchen counter, closely watching dozens of tiny ants encircling a dab of insect attractant.

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I could be doing more important things. But at the moment I am transfixed by these indigenous creatures. They are mysterious and inscrutable. Their  unknown intent drives them to act in ways I do not understand.

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I feel like a child again, recalling endless summer days of play and study, study and play. I imagine impossible adventures. I wonder and observe the critters around me. Sometimes I wish I were small enough to engage them.

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Tiny versions of myself scurry up blades of grass, briefly acknowledge a passing scurrier, disappear into the shadows, make way for the next traveler.

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What if the ants were my human size, what if I were their size? Would they be observant, or just too big and too busy to take time? What if ant-sized me had to run for my life to avoid a huge descending foot?

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Do ants even know I exist? Does a guardian ant relate mythologies to its young’uns, tales about near-miss encounters with beings too large to see?

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And, in my case, are there nearby things so humongous that they become invisible? Like thunder? Is thunder the vibrating result of a sky-sized stomp by an entity I cannot see?

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As I gain years and wisdoms I pay less attention to unexplainable things. If a Leviathan calls me by the thunder do I shrug it off and continue my daily rounds, just like the ants?

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Am I a rolling thunder to these minuscule denizens? Have they shrugged me off, too?

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Arising with a groan from the effort of changing from kitchen-counter stoop to bipedal strut, I leave the ants now. They have their world and must protect and maintain it. I must do the same with mine.

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But it is nice to stop to smell the roses now and then…and notice an impossibly small critter running harmlessly amok among the fragrances

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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

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