From the desk of Jim Reed

I have always had these little rituals that kept me going. Want a couple of examples?

For instance, for thirty years, I watched the opening monologue of the Johnny Carson Show, just so I could go to bed with a smile on my face, regardless of how bad the day had been. Johnny always made me laugh, especially when his jokes fell flat.

For many years, I timed my Saturday morning shower to coincide with the NPR radio broadcast of Scott Simon’s chat with Daniel Schorr. I came to admire Schorr, because he was one of the few remaining on-air journalists who actually knew of what he spoke: he had Been There…been on the scene when wars started, when presidents were disgraced, when dictators strutted. In his 93 years of life he covered just about everything that happened, with skill and humor and accuracy. Daniel Schorr never let me down. Now that he’s gone, I’ll have to come up with another ritual to get me through the day.

By the way, Dan Schorr actually made a personal appearance in one of my stories, some years back. Here it is–hope it reminds you of The Days when good music and good reporting still mattered:

THE GRAND OLD OPERA LIVES ON!

I used to have this recurrent fantasy. In my daydream, I am driving along, heading down Birmingham’s 20th Street, windows down and radio turned up full-blast. Bliss is written all over my face. I pull up to a traffic light and in the lane beside me is a man whose radio is turned up full-blast, too. His radio is playing emotion-laden, scatalogically robust hip hop music, full of profanity and violence. And it’s real loud. Attitude Bliss is written all over his face. My radio, on the other hand, is playing emotion-laden, violence-ridden, over-the-top grand opera. Suddenly, for a split second, he realizes that my music is his music. I realize that his music is my music. Each music in its own small universe is the music of nightmares and reality and deprivation and hopefulness, love, lust, and celestial warfare. The driver looks me in the eye, raises an eyebrow, and nods, then speeds away. I continue my trek through Downtown, a moment of revelation and wisdom filed away for later.

At the age of 17, I became a radio announcer at a public radio/classical music FM station just like WBHM, only this station was in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, and it was called WUOA. Back then, in 1959, there were only a few such stations in the country, but they set the standard for what really good public radio stations would be for the next forty years. On our Tuscaloosa station, we concentrated wholeheartedly on classical music, opera, music from the theatre, ballet…with a smattering of jazz, stand-up comedy, folk and experimental music.

And on Saturday afternoons, there was the Metropolitan Opera.

I had never heard entire operas before, but as the newest member of the announcing team, I got to work the shifts nobody else favored–and that included Saturday afternoons. While other students were attending football games and going creek-banking, I was trapped inside the control room, listening to opera. While I did all those things announcers were expected to do on duty–file recordings, cue up tapes, read transmitter gauges, fill in program logs, write narratives and promotional announcements for future shows–I was exposed to the wonderful dulcet announcing tones of Milton Cross, the host for the Texaco Opera. Cross always sounded as if he were the world’s greatest and most well-informed opera buff, and he told me way more than I ever had planned on knowing. At first, I felt like the nerd that I was, listening to all those great singers. But it didn’t take long for me to immerse myself in the music, appreciate the enormous voices that opera singers always possessed, and eventually feel very incomplete if I didn’t get to hear an entire opera at least once a week.

It was an incredible education, and I was being paid to obtain it!

And, so, for more than thirty years, I found myself arranging life so that I was a captive audience of the Metropolitan Opera broadcasts. I worked the Saturday shifts at Reed Books, and I did all those things that bookdealers have to do–catalogue new acquisitions, file and arrange books, pay bills, greet and assist customers, answer the phone–but mainly, I got to listen to a full opera each Saturday all by myself.

It was a wonderful ritual till WBHM abruptly and without public discourse, took the opera off the air. Silenced were those voices that are a dozen times bigger than the voices of hip hop artists, orchestras a hundredfold larger than hip hop bands.

Why, if they could take the opera off the air, what could happen next? What if they decided to remove Daniel Schorr from the airwaves? That would be like taking the wisest, most experienced journalist in radio and locking him inside a padded room.

In another daydream, I’m actually in a padded room with the late Milton Cross and Daniel Schorr, and we’re having a great time, listening to the music and chatting between acts. And the hip hop radio guy joins us now and then, listens knowingly, then plays us a cut or two of his music. And after awhile, we begin to appreciate and understand one another, and the diversity that all forms of music and words can bring to the world, if we’ll only keep listening together

(c) 2010 A.D. by Jim Reed

www.jimreedbooks.com

THE EDGE OF WETNESS

Most people don’t “get” us Southerners, most don’t “get” the South and the way we live in this part of the country.

No, this isn’t one of those diatribes we Southerners are prone to spew, in which we talk about how Down Here the writers are better, the people are always Right, the belles are prettier, the footballers are ballzier, the patriotism is patriottier…this ain’t about that at all.

What this message is about is that the climate and the pace and the social intercourse Down Here are all different from other parts of the country. The best aspects of this are admirable, and we won’t talk about the dark side at all.

Down Here, when we say the weather is hot, we mean really hot and most definitely really humid. Folks in Wyoming don’t know about humid—which makes everything seem twice as hot or twice as cold as it actually is. In the South, we know all about hot and humid—we’re the experts. When we hit that wall of wetness, going from an air-conditioned room to 101 degrees heat index outdoors, we are not surprised!

Now, about social intercourse. Each part of the country sports its own style of manners, and those who visit here are amazed at how we treat each other in public. We tend to say “sir” and “ma’am” and “thank yew” and mean it, whereas some Americans who live elsewhere think those terms are sarcastic or disrespectful. Believe me, they are not. When we say “sir” and “ma’am,” it means our Mamas taught us to act polite to everybody, regardless of age or sex or race or religion or goofiness. We are instructed by example to keep our opinions on these subjects to ourselves in public, so that you can’t tell how we really feel. You just know it feels nice to have somebody verbally respect you.

Patiotism extends itself into all sorts of areas in the South—pulling for Auburn or Alabama is patriotic and the right thing to do. Paying homage to our Confederate ancestors is respectful, regardless of whether we approve of their attitudes on race and sectionalism. Bragging about the town we live in is expected, even if we think our leaders are loopy or crooked, and even if potholes crack our teeth. Patting the head of a toddler or offering a nibble to a pet or taking the elbow of an elderly person crossing the street—these are things that we do, things that transcend our prejudices about “the kids these days” and dog poop and annoying old folks.

In some other parts of the country, people can feel threatened when you hold a door open for them or offer them a seat on a crowded bus or signal to them that they have an under-inflated tire. They tend to think you are criticizing them or looking down on them or patronizing them. But Down Here, it’s the Right Thing to do.

In other words, Down Here, when somebody advises you to do the right thing, you know exactly what that means.

I pity folks who were brought up not knowing these genteel ways of behaving in public.

We Southerners have many faults and many social problems, but at our best, we at least know how to make you feel right at home.

And when we say “Y’all come back, you hear?” you know that we really and truly mean it

© Jim Reed 2010 A.D.

Blue Rooster Press’s second edition of my book, How to Become Your Own Book, is at the press.

Here’s the new introduction:

HOW TO USE THIS BOOK

This is a pick-me-up book.

Like most of my writings, you can start anywhere in the book, you can skip around, you can thumb through…every page has something you can use when you are ready to use it.

The first rule is, mark this book up, turn down pages, attach sticky notes, tear pages out that you can use, tear pages out you don’t need. Write in the margins, allow the mustard from your sandwich to stain a page. All of these mutilations become part of the history of the book.

The second rule is, don’t show the exercises to anyone at first. This book is designed to help you re-boot, re-start, jump-start, initiate, fast-forward your writing life. It’s your dirty little secret. It’s your joyful little secret. Take your pick.

The third rule is, never, ever throw this book away. It is part of your life’s index and can be a hilarious and scary reference guide to your evolution. Once you’ve filled in the book, buy another copy and start filling that one in. They will be two entirely different books. Won’t that be amazing?

Get to it. Why are you lingering over this page?

–Jim Reed

Birmingham, Alabama

2010 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

www.jimreedbooks.com

THE ROGERS BOYS SAVE MY LIFE

 http://jimreedbooks.com/mp3/rogersboys.mp3

Did I ever stop to thank you guys?

I know you’re all still hanging around, in film and video and literature and memory, but out of the four of you, I only got to express my gratitude to one.

Let me back up.

I’m thinking about the four Rogers Boys in my life: Will Rogers, Roy Rogers, Buck Rogers and Fred Rogers.

Will and Roy and Buck chaperoned me through my childhood in the 1940’s and 1950’s. Fred stuck with me after that, and to this day still nurtures me.

Will Rogers was funny, wise, commonsensical, more like a kindly uncle who saw through pretense and ego and managed to make me laugh at the scary and puzzling and daunting things that life dishes out. He found a way to see something useful and good in just about everybody he met, be they despot or beggar, politico or felon. At my best, I try to keep my head and think about what Will Rogers would have said about my predicaments.

Roy Rogers taught me his code of ethics. Through his movies, comic books, broadcast appearances and personal life, he set standards of behavior. His public persona was upright, he played fair even when others didn’t, he was open and giving of time to anyone who needed a helping hand. His private life was exemplary: his adopted family was diverse—way ahead of his times. Whenever I was in trouble, I’d think about how Roy would have acted.

Buck Rogers fueled my imagination and helped me see beyond the corporeal and gravitational strictures of being alive. He taught me to accept my wildest dreams as part of my reality. He introduced me to a futurist whose head remains in the clouds and whose feet stay firmly planted on the ground—Ray Bradbury. Buck Rogers taught me to let my mind run free, with the simultaneous realization that reality is always there to keep me stable and productive for family and society.

Finally, Fred Rogers walked with me for decades, and still does, reminding me to see the useful and good things about people and the world, all the while noting that things are never perfect. He was my friend no matter what mistakes I made. He was forgiving and instructive at the same time. Latch-key children throughout the world depended on him every afternoon, since he was the only adult in their lives who looked directly at them and talked gently with them, who gave them 30 minutes a day uninterrupted and non-threatening. I discovered him as an adult and recognized the latch-key kid within myself. I wrote to him and he replied, fortifying my observation that it’s ok to be strong and kind at the same moment.

Well, that’s what I think about the Rogers Boys. Go ahead—google them, study them, see what they have to say. Better still, adopt your own set of chaperones, people in your life who are so good and nurturing that you tend to take them for granted and forget to thank them till now.

I’ve been given much good advice in my life, most of which I resisted or ignored. But, luckily, the people I select to guide me in the long run, such as the Rogers Boys, are always there, waiting for me to grow up and finally listen

(c) 2010 A.D. by Jim Reed

jim@jimreedbooks.com

www.jimreedbooks.com

BOOKS “R” US

Reed Books Antiques/The Museum of Fond Memories…a day unlike any other day, but curiously familiar…

OUTSIDE THE SHOP

It’s like a bolero out there, everybody choreographing their unique dances to life…

Remon grabs another of his many daily smokes outside my shop, on the way to the smoking parking lot, where so many others leave their cigarette filters…relics for future archaeologists to uncover and puzzle over.

INSIDE THE SHOP

Everybody brings baggage, everyone has a story—even if unconsciously so…

Geoff drops by and donates a brass-and-velvet stanchion, so that I can place some psychological boundary between myself and the occasional hovering customer.

Carolynne picks up copies of the latest Birmingham Arts Journal to spread the gospel of art and lit.

Randy decides to read Hemingway and Faulkner and Fitzgerald. There is hope!

ACROSS FROM THE SHOP

I can see the parallel businesses and activities going about their cycles…

Rhonda soaks the cooling sun and smiles her wisdom, surrounded by shoes and artifacts.

The Maid of Metering carefully prepares penalty notices for people who don’t know the rules and mysteries of Downtown Parking.

MEANWHILE, BACK INSIDE

The imaginary reality of each customer swirls around them, influencing the way they see the shop…

Kid customer purchases an enormous football-shaped balloon.

A grown-up attorney takes the life-size Marilyn Monroe home with him.

Another kid customer buys a flashing red disco light for his room.

One woman ogles the Leg Lamp and Mortimer Snerd and Piggly Wiggly head in the display windows.

Yet another purchases a wind-up bunny astride a tricycle.

One customer selects old postcards and comes back for more.

Somebody else stays in the front corner for five hours and reads ancient love letters and cards from my grandfather’s old post office boxes. Her bliss is unmistakable. The names of my relatives in Peterson, Alabama are on each box.

A Regular ushers and tours her friend through the shop.

Giggles emanate from the back of the store. Collectibles entertain them.

One girl seeks and finds Gulliver’s Travels and carries her smile home with her.

And so it goes.

You go climb Mount Everest.

I’ll remain here and have much more fun

© 2010 Jim Reed

jim@jimreedbooks.com

www.jimreedbooks.com

THE GIRL WHO COULD SEE RAINBOWS

“Poppy, there’s a rainbow in your glasses!”

The tinny voice of a small five-year-old redheaded urchin focused my wandering mind. I stopped at the door, looked down over the armchair in the living room at Jessica, who was smiling cheek to cheek.

“What?” I asked.

“There’s a rainbow in your glasses!” Jessica repeated.

I looked beyond her at the morning cloudless sun beaming in and realized that my Coke-bottle-bottom eyeglasses must have been picking up the sun and tossing its rays into a prismatic wonderland for Jessica’s eyes only.

I grinned and beamed her smile back at her, enjoying the moment.

Then, it was out the door and to the car, a toddling lunchpail-carrier at my side, her fist tightly holding a damp quarter for milk.

Some mornings Jessica can’t seem to remember how to strap herself into the seat, other times she defiantly does it herself and don’t you try to help her. This time, just for a test, she claimed she didn’t know how and I had to lean over her jelly-mustachioed face to grab the strap and pull it over her lap.

The radio shot war words at my belly, and I decided to turn it off for a while.

“Why’d you do that?” Jessica again.

“What?” Me again.

Jessica: “Why’d you turn off the radio?”

I grunted and listened instead to the sunshine and watched closely the asphalt whooshing under the car, humming a song about the sunny side of the street.

Jessica looked over me and beyond my shiny pate to the sun that was racing alongside the car, making the east all yellow and white.

“The sun is on the sunny side of the street,” she remarked with hand-clapping delight.

So it is, so it is.

How can you maintain an early-morning bad mood when there’s so much sunshine coming at you from inside the car, as well as from without?

We maneuvered the cool white vehicle to the front of the school, I punched the button to release Jessica’s seat belt, yelled “I love you!” to the red streak, who turned for a second, repeated what I’d just said, and disappeared into the sunshiny morning air.

Here’s hoping your grumbly morning finds you with a rainbow in your glasses

(c) 2010 A.D. by Jim Reed

jim@jimreedbooks.com

THINK HARD…DO GOOD

How much is there left to think, or think about?

I’m beginning to believe there are just a few original thoughts in the world, and that everything else is mere repetition, regurgitation, re-interpretation, mythologization.

What is there in life?

Well, you have your birth, from a womb or a tube.

Then, you have your expanse, all the way to death.

In between birth and death, there is activity, most of which is designed to avoid facing the reality that, well, we all begin and end the same way. There’s no getting out of this.

Activities between birth and death include automatic experience (breathing a millionfold breaths, feeling a billionfold heartbeats, uncountable blinkings, etc.) and somewhat controllable experience (laughing, ingesting, believing, disbelieving, ranting, relaxing, accepting, etc.).

Controllable experience sometimes disguises itself as uncontrollable (having faith, being cynical, being realistic, being a smartmouth, etc.).

Uncontrollable experience can make you think you’re really in charge when you’re not (waving a wand to make the sun hide at the exact moment an eclipse occurs, seeing the face of Jesus in a potato chip, pretending not to itch—which is one of the most profound things to accomplish, etc.).

The one thing hardest to face or believe or realize is that you’re in control of a lot more things than you can possibly imagine. You can decide not to act like a smartmouth (you can stifle a belch if you really try, you can hop one more inch than you think, you can look an unattractive person in the eye and see something really beautiful, etc.).

As meek and unimportant as you and I may be compared to the universe at large, we can be and act a lot more powerful, with effort and concentration. It is possible to make a difference, once we accept the notion that difference comes in many  sundry incarnations, mostly small and at first difficult to recognize.

Are there a million examples I could cite? Yes. But I’d rather describe just one thing and leave the rest of the metaphor, the figuring-out, to you—being as how you are so powerful and all.

Try this one thing:

Find someone who could use a smile or some cheering up. Pick someone you’d ordinarily ignore or dismiss or even dislike. Decide that you are far too powerful to miss this opportunity to step outside your small private cone of silence, that you will do this one thing. Leave a thoughtful and hopelessly cheerful gift where this person can find it. Then, follow the immutable rules of true selflessness: Never, never let the person know who gave such a thoughtful thing. Never, never take credit for your act. Never, never write or tell about it. And…the hardest but most humane thing to do, learn to live without credit or reward for this special act. Once you become comfortable with committing an anonymous and loving deed, the number you can continue to do will always be ten more than you imagine.

Just an idea

© 2010 A.D. Jim Reed

jim@jimreedbooks.com

www.jimreedbooks.com

THOUGHTS ON MEMORIAL DAYS PAST AND FUTURE

I never went to war.

At least, not the kind of war you think of when you hear the word.

The kind of war we imagine on Memorial Day is the CNN-Al-Jazeera-Hollywood action movie war, where there are lots of explosions and bloodlettings and widow-makers and much camaraderie and cussing and-us-and-themisms tossed about.

War by definition is a horrible thing. Those who declare war let loose the dogs and, whether right or wrong, whether winner or loser, they have the lives of us at the mercy of their hands.

Those who actually fight the wars, whether conscript or volunteer, whether victim or aggressor, are doing work that the war-declarers have failed to prevent.

There are other kinds of wars being waged since the beginning of our genetics—wars of words, wars of ideas, wars of subjugation, wars of powermongering, wars of pettiness, wars of territory, wars of belief systems, wars of defense, wars of intolerance. These wars only represent the inability of those in charge to talk and discuss and compromise and settle for less than conquest and more than obliteration.

I never went to war.

But I am the victim of all wars, and you are, too, whether we like it or not, whether we admit it or not.

Are we as humans capable of avoiding war, or are we predisposed forever to draw chalklines and establish doubledogdares and respond to resistance as if we always know we are right and they are wrong?  Ask the few real thinkers and viziers of the world who can see us as we are. According to the best of them, we have war locked within our DNA. The only way we can ever go warless for a period is to find and follow great leaders who are wise and kind and charismatic and who set sterling examples for us through their behavior both private and public. During our all-too-brief episodes of great leadership, we have peace. The bad news is, once we lose a great leader, we sink right back into our predisposed fears and intolerances and bigotries and aggressions. The only hope we have is to forcefully seek those potential great leaders and, leaving behind our hilarious and disturbing small-mindedness, look to them to keep us all from killing and banishing and mistreating and mocking one another.

Where are these potential leaders? As H.G. Wells said, we know who we are and what our weaknesses are, but we must find a way to live each day as if they did not exist, as if every moment of life is worth living, as if the fate of the entire universe depends upon every kindly act and thought we can muster.

A mad plan, but perhaps the only plan that makes sense in a senselessly chaotic cosmos

(c) Jim Reed 2010 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

JAZZERCIDE

Listening to jazz. Cool jazz. What a way to go! What a way to remain! Listening to jazz.

Here’s a red clay diary note from a jazz session I attended a couple of years ago, the kind of note that writes itself. The kind of note that makes me want to go listen to some more jazz. Mo’ better jazz, that is:

Dancing in

my head,

my feet

tapping, my

body unmoved

except inside

my gut, my

gut feeling,

close to

my heart.

Within the

music,

wondering

what the

Void would

feel like,

if bereft

of the

beat, the

sound, the

ecstasy

of  the

musicians

and their

extensions—

their cyborg

instruments—

so much a part

of themselves

they don’t know where

they begin and the

instruments end

(c) 2010 A.D. by Jim Reed

www.jimreedbooks.com