A BOOK TOO FAR

Some days, the gentle addiction drives me. Seldom do I drive It.

     But today, Sunday, is too beautiful a day to merely go to the

supermarket and purchase vittles. The day would be just a little

more perfect should I happen to pass by a flea market on the way

to the store, and look for something old and resonant and nostalgic

and comforting.

This gentle addiction has driven me for six decades or more.

Taking a wide turn and ending up at the former Fair Park monthly

flea market, I stick my toe into the old moldy atmosphere, attempting

to ignore the nearby ghastly brick and glass structure that is replacing

the park’s raceway/state fair stands, imagining that, in a couple of

decades, the new building will be as run-down and unkempt as the

previous one. The City has a way of building brand-new well-financed

venues, then ignoring them for years.

I suppose the reason that the monthly flea market survives is that it is

being ignored, too. Worst thing you could do would be to race around

tidying up the place, putting in a/c and heat, painting it, lighting it, cleaning

the restrooms for a change. If that happened, the market would have all the

charm of a K-Mart, and I would have to drive further afield to find

something authentic-feeling.

But today, I am lucky. The flea market is open for business, a few old-time

dealers still lug their wares inside, an occasional entrepreneur attempts to

hustle you with new things you could get cheaper at Dollar Tree, and here

and there, if you look real hard and know what you’re looking for, you can

spot a treasure.

Here’s the LP/tomato man who always tries to sell old recordings, comic

books, paper ephemera, printer paper, toys, movies, and—tomatoes. I buy

the last of his tomatoes, then spot a few books he’s got on display and is

about to re-box for the long trip home. Hmm…this has a “buzz” to it, the

look of a book published before acidic, self-destructing paper was

mass-marketed. I weigh it in my hands, its dark embossed cover looking

a little weary. The book falls open to the all-important title page, and here’s

what I see: REPORT OF THE SECRETARY OF THE TREASURY

TRANSMITTING A REPORT FROM THE REGISTER OF THE

TREASURY OF THE COMMERCE AND NAVIGATON OF THE

UNITED STATES FOR THE YEAR ENDING JUNE 30, 1857. Published

under act of Congress of September 16, 1857, in Washington, D.C.

645 pages not counting index, pages filled with charts and graphs and

data that somebody could just not live without, back then. A nice little

item to trigger your imagination, pop you into your time machine, and

make you wonder about the printing process, the computerless hours

of research and massaging of information, the typesetting done the

hard way—by hand, and backwards! Proofreading was still in vogue

back then, so you find few mistakes within.

Well, at least this is a real book, assembled by author and editor and

proofreader and printer, and distributed to those few people who could

understand such things. The book has its own fragrance, its own ambience,

its own story, a story recorded 150-plus years ago and alive today in my

very own hands!

I told you it is a gentle addiction, didn’t I?

The book will enter the store tomorrow and join its bookish family on

my shelves, waiting for the astute collector to discover it among all the

other solitudes in my little universe

           © 2010 A.D. by Jim Reed

           www.jimreedbooks.com

THIS WEEK’S HALLOWEEN-RECOMMENDED BOOK IS ONE

YOU CAN’T PUT DOWN, PROVIDED YOU REALLY, REALLY READ IT STRAIGHT THROUGH…

IF YOU ALLOW THE STORY TO CARRY YOU ALONG…

IF YOU SUSPEND ALL JUDGEMENT TILL THE LAST PAGE,

YOU’LL HAVE QUITE A RIDE.

You’ll never find this bestseller on the New York Times bestseller list, but it’s a book that will stay with you the rest of your life…a book that hasn’t been out of print for two centuries.

In keeping with the month of Halloween, this is one to scare you:

Once you’ve read the scariest books ever written, Halloween is never over, and you are never the same.

NOW READ THIS:

Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe  

 (“…my only way to go about an attempt for an escape was, if possible, to get a savage into my possession…”)

     This is a 200-year-old novel, based on a true story, about a man totally isolated from other human beings. The theme is universal: how would you survive if you had only your wits, if you had no-one else to rely on?

     And how would you deal with the solitary confinement of a desert island, never knowing whether you’d be rescued, whether you’d be eaten alive, whether you’d be taken by a virus or an accident?

     And, what would happen if you got your wish, only to be surrounded by cannibals whose only mission is to have you for dinner—literally?

     Hey, give it a try. It’s worth the effort

READ AND CRINGE!

© 2010 A.D. by Jim Reed

www.jimreedbooks.com

THINK ON THESE THINGS
 
A great way to discover and re-discover ideas and artifacts is to catalog them.
 
At the shop, I’m placing an enormous amount of sheet music online, to go
with the other 47,000 items already listed. This way, if you’re looking for
lyrics to a song that keeps running amuck in your head, you can go to Reed
Books’ website and enter the title. If it pops up, that means I have it in the
Shop and can pull it from the archives for you to peruse and purchase.
 
Today’s trove of songs produces a little tune I’d almost forgotten, from the
musical SOUTH PACIFIC.
 
It’s a blatant and poignant diatribe against bigotry, intolerance, racism and ignorance.
 
Well worth reading:
 
You’ve got to be taught to hate and fear.
You’ve got to be taught from year to year.
It’s got to be drummed in your dear little ear.
You’ve got to be carefully taught.
 
You’ve got to be taught to be afraid
Of people whose eyes are oddly made,
And people whose skin is a diff’rent shade,
You’ve got to be carefully taught.
 
You’ve got to be taught before it’s too late,
Before you are six or seven or eight,
To hate all the people your relatives hate,
You’ve got to be carefully taught!
 
–Oscar Hammerstein II & Richard Rodgers
 
You can’t get much more specific and un-subtle than this,
and it’s such a nice surprise in the middle of an otherwise
sentimental musical. It reminds me of my favorite Shel
Silverstein poem about the same subject. Read on:
 
NO DIFFERENCE
 
Small as a peanut,
Big as a giant,
We’re all the same size
When we turn off the light.
 
Rich as a sultan,
Poor as a mite,
We’re all worth the same
When we turn off the light.
 
Red, black or orange,
Yellow or white,
We all look the same
When we turn off the light.
 
So maybe the way
To  make everything right
Is for God to just reach out
And turn off the light!
 
–Shel Silverstein
 
End of today’s morality thoughts.
 
It’s good to contemplate these things once in a
while…even better to think about them every day…
even best to practice them
© 2010 A.D. by Jim Reed

www.jimreedbooks.com

THIS WEEK’S RECOMMENDED BOOK IS ONE

YOU CAN’T PUT DOWN, PROVIDED YOU REALLY, REALLY READ IT STRAIGHT THROUGH…

IF YOU ALLOW THE STORY TO CARRY YOU ALONG…

IF YOU SUSPEND ALL JUDGEMENT TILL THE LAST PAGE,

YOU’LL HAVE QUITE A RIDE.

You’ll never find this bestseller on the New York Times bestseller list, but it’s a book that will stay with you the rest of your life…a book that hasn’t been out of print for more than a century.

In keeping with the month of Halloween, this is one to scare you:

Once you’ve read the scariest books ever written, Halloween is never over, and you are never the same.

NOW READ THIS:

Dracula by Bram Stoker  

 (“As the Count leaned over me and his hands touched me, I could not repress a shudder…”)

Bram Stoker published this wonderfully wicked and terrifying novel at about the same time another horror story was being published: The War of the Worlds, by H.G. Wells. Yes, both books are horror stories with villains never before seen in 19^th-Century literature.

DRACULA is particularly suspenseful because it takes place in real places, places you can find on the map to this day. The extended train ride that young Jonathan Harker takes to meet Count Dracula is horrible enough—Stoker makes sure you have indigestion and a sense of foreboding long before anything really creepy happens. You’ll see what I mean.

READ AND CRINGE!

© 2010 A.D. by Jim Reed

www.jimreedbooks.com

THIS WEEK’S BOOK YOU CAN’T PUT DOWN

I recommend another book you’ll never find on the New York Times bestseller list, but a book that will stay with you the rest of your life.

In keeping with the month of Halloween, this is one to scare you:

Once you’ve read the scariest books ever written, Halloween is never over, and you are never the same.

NOW READ THIS:

The scariest book I ever read: Castaway by James Gould Cozzens, published in 1934.

I don’t know why every teacher of literature, every writing instructor, isn’t assigning this book to students who are interested in really writing scary, writing well. This book leaves a lifetime impression and may even defy categorization. It could be called a horror story, though nothing really supernatural occurs. It could be called a dark fantasy, but there are no levitations or spells or exploding heads. It could be termed a remarkable work of avant-garde fiction, but nothing about it is pretentious. It might be a mystery, but it’s even hard to define what’s mysterious about it.

I won’t reveal more, because I want you to read it for yourself. Let’s just say it’s the story of a man trapped in a department store. Let’s just say it might be a re-telling of Robinson Crusoe. Let’s just say it’s a survivalist tale, a morality tale. Let’s just say it will stick with you.

The amazement of books such as this is that one short line can make you jump, can make your neck-hairs stand on end, can bring chills… 

 (“What he would do if he heard it, Mr. Lecky did not know. In despairing anticipation he feared to hear as much as he feared not hearing anything. To be pursued and know it was hardly better than to be pursued and not know it…”) 

READ AND CRINGE!

© 2010 A.D. by Jim Reed

THIS WEEK’S BOOK YOU CAN’T PUT DOWN

I recommend a book you’ll never find on the

New York Times bestseller list, but a book that will stay

with you the rest of your life.

In keeping with the month of Halloween, this is

one to scare you:

Once you’ve read the scariest books ever written,

Halloween is never over, and you are never the same.

NOW READ THIS:

Nightmare Alley by William Lindsay Gresham  

 (“How do you get to be a geek?

I can’t understand how anybody can get so low.”)

William Lindsay Gresham’s novel about the dark edges 

of carnival life was written from his experiences 

with magic (he knew Harry Houdini) 

and midway life. The film, starring 

Tyrone Power, is equally dark and kind 

of oblique. One thing is sure—you’ll 

never use the term geek carelessly again. 

What a geek is will haunt you for years.

READ AND CRINGE!

www.jimreedbooks.com

IN MY SOUTH…

*Socrates (SEW-crates) and Socrates (SAH-cruh-tees) 

are the same person.

*Arab (A-rabb) is a place and Arab (EH-rubb) is a person.

*Geezers are sexy.

IN MY SOUTH… 

*People just come right out with it.

*We scratch when and where it itches.

*A speed limit is a suggestion.

IN MY SOUTH… 

*Accumulating makes more sense than collecting.

*We pretty much want to be wherever we are—and 

don’t you rush it!

*Dentists hand out lollipops.

IN MY SOUTH… 

*We admire women who spit and pick their teeth in public.

*Spitting and picking your teeth in public is mandatory.

*Chawing and kissing can go right together.

IN MY SOUTH…

*You can wear a tie to go to lunch, but you have 

to leave your jacket at the office.

*You never allow guests to leave your home without 

escorting them to the car and chatting for another fifteen minutes.

*Y’all is both singular and plural.

And so it goes. In my South, the only place I’ve ever lived, local folks and 

local customs and local habits continue to amaze me and make me feel right 

at home. What would it be like to live anywhere else? You tell me

© 2010 A.D. by Jim Reed

www.jimreedbooks.com 

THE JOY IN MY JOB

Most of my daily activity at Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories 

consists of listening to people and often referring them to other trusted 

merchants and institutions. 

This is a free service, so you can understand why I seem grateful 

whenever someone actually purchases something.

A typical day at the shop frequently includes happenings such as these:

A customer tearfully recalls how much the “stuff” at Reed Books reminds 

her of the “stuff” she owns, and of her lost family. She smiles, reminiscing 

through tears.

Visitors from Tennessee, staying at the Tutwiler Hotel, remark on Birmingham’s 

beauty. They love the bookstore and the streets. I wish Birmingham natives 

could see the city’s beauty through most visitors’ eyes.

A little girl reads and collects Nancy Drew books. We chat about Nancy’s 

resourcefulness, determination, elegance, intelligence, wit—and wish our 

favorite movers and shakers possessed these qualities.

Two young women want an inexpensive place to eat. I send them to the 

New York Deli around the corner.

Two more women want images of old Birmingham to display at the Greenbriar 

retirement facility. I send them on their way to What’s On Second, a block 

or two over.

A scruffy gruff non-customer is looking for a cigar store. I send him to the new 

store on Second Avenue that replaced the mysterious Bohemian Grocer.

One customer wants a reading lamp—not antique or expensive. I send him to 

Standard Furniture Company, which has been across the street for most 

of a century.

A street guy is trying to sell a pair of snakeskin boots. I refer him to Goodyear 

Shoe Hospital across the way, which has also been there for nearly one hundred 

years. Maybe Rhonda will know what to tell him.

Tourists are looking for things to do and places to shop in Birmingham—they 

don’t believe the staff at the Redmont Hotel, who told them 

there was nothing to do Downtown. I excitedly tell them all the 

wonderful things to do and places to go Downtown, and send them 

first to Sojourns, Melissa’s fair trade import gift shop next door. 

They return later, thanking me for giving them a great day.

A New England publisher calls and wants to vet a manuscript about the 1963 

Birmingham horrors. I send him to Dr. Glenn Feldman, my son-in-law, who is 

a scholar of the Civil Rights Era.

One customer wants the exact lighted Santa Claus toy he had as a child, and I 

find him one on the internet. He is so excited I fear he will faint.

A young woman brings in a bag of books her aged father wants her to sell. My 

offer is generous, but the father has inflated ideas of the books’ worth. She 

pleasantly packs the books and patiently totes them back home.

A customer donates a bag of DVD films. She knows I won’t throw them away.

Two women bring in double bags of useless textbooks and donate them. I politely 

express my gratitude, then quietly donate them to the Salvation Army Thrift Store, 

so that they won’t have to lug them a couple of blocks back to their car.

In the early afternoon, it begins to rain, so I patiently bring in the book rack and 

record rack, so that my precious cargo won’t get wet.

PS: I actually sold some items today. I realize that the price of being in this 

business is voluntary service as bartender, coach and triage manager. 

Making an income is in there somewhere

© 2010 A.D. by Jim Reed

THESE ARE MY PEOPLE

Navigating the day, peripheral vision picks up things 

I can’t help but notice. 

I notice the people who file through my life. This 

relentless attribute has followed me since I was a mere lad. 

There are disadvantages to noticing much more than 

I need to notice, but the advantages, oh the advantages, 

far outweigh the disadvantages.

These are my people. They don’t know it, and I don’t 

know why…but these are my people.

Many Birmingham curbs are knocked down for the convenience 

of handicapped and elderly and wounded pedestrians. Many 

Birmingham curbs are not knocked down, and there is no apparent 

logic to how curbs are selected. 

One citizen I see is the knock-down curb-avoidance 

swollen-ankle brown-legal-folder-woman on her 

pain-free descent into incomplete city street engineering. 

She carries her burden to the curb, notices that there’s 

no ramp, and carefully circles ‘round to the next curb, 

which is smoothed down. Every step is taken gingerly, 

to avoid as much pain as possible.

One customer at Reed Books always catches me in the midst of his own 

monologue. He enters the store in mid-sentence and never stops chatting till 

he leaves minutes later—or scores of minutes later. He needs to know that I 

am listening to him, and I, the bartender, do my best to continue my work while 

paying attention to him. He seems happier when he leaves.

Then there’s the one-foot-wheelchair racer who tries to dodge the traffic while 

scooting his one undamaged foot on the sidewalk, creating  a manual scooter 

that helps him go faster than mere arms or wheels allow. Later, I see the 

straining-wheelchair-couple attempting to navigate and avoid four lanes of 

oncoming traffic while frantically pushing their big wheels with muscular arms. 

They make it safely across, and we the traffickers politely slow down to allow 

their passage.

As I drive the automatic asphalt lanes, sweet music from the radio brings peace 

prior to mayhem. My mind is momentarily settled.

Amazement # 456: I see a woman on her way to work who isn’t using a cell phone! 

Who isn’t texting. Who isn’t primping in the rear view mirror. Who isn’t day dreaming. 

Amazing amazement! What’s her problem?

The lone childshoe lies on its side in the median. From a one-legged child? From a 

two-legged child with only one shoe? Is it a fugitive shoe that got away from its mate 

on purpose? A purposely discarded shoe? An object thrown in anger? Something that 

fell off a truck? The lone childshoe deposits its own unanswered mystery as I drive past.

The long cyclist-slope-inertia-ride takes place before me. The bicycle takes advantage 

of a long incline to pick up speed and churn the rider’s stomach in exaltation. Hope he 

makes it safely to wherever.

The retired majorette still wears her majorette outfit and makeup and the memory of 

twirling rests visibly upon her shoulder and on her glossy scarlet-lipsticked lips. 

She purchases an old book on how to become a majorette and proudly tells me about 

her majorette days long past but ever present.

She joins my family without her knowledge.

These are my people. They don’t know it, and I don’t know 

why…but these are my people

--Jim Reed © 2010 A.D.