I’m a Boat People
by Tim Reynolds
I come from a long line of boat people. Three hundred and ninety-eight years ago my ninth Great-Grandfather left his wife and five daughters at home to sail off on something longer than a three-hour tour. Richard never returned, although after three years, he had Elizabeth and the girls sail over to join him.
Unfortunately, five years later, he was dead, cause unknown. He was only forty-nine. Now, I’m not saying ninth-Great-Grandma had anything to do with ninth-Great-Grampa’s untimely and mysterious death, but maybe sailing away on the Mayflower without his family wasn’t his best decision ever.
The weighing of anchors and snapping of mainsails is so ingrained in our blood that my father bought a twenty-foot sailboat when I was a kid so the family could ply the exciting waters of Lake Ontario. We spent many “joyous” long weekends away from our friends, on… continue reading in Summer 2018 issue.
by Tim Reynolds
I loves me my trees. Not in a “that young fella needs some serious therapy” kinda love. More like adoration, appreciation, affection, and a few other A-words from the thesaurus.
Sadly, I have another A-word, allergies. Specifically, dust, mold, mildew, ragweed, grass, and trees. In other words I’m allergic to the entire world. Over the decades my allergies have tapered off, but when I was a young goat exploring the world I was always trying different places in which to hide from my two younger sisters.
The crawlspace under my parents’ bedroom was perfect. It had just enough hanging spider egg sacks to keep my sisters at bay. It also had enough dust, mold, and mildew to give me a serious respiratory infection for a month.
Next I thought of hiding in the grass in the backyard, but Mom had some bizarre fixation about having a nicely groomed short lawn around our suburban brick castle, so I would have looked like… continue reading in Spring 2018 issue.
Prince Goofball…and the search for cozy
by Tim Reynolds
Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away, there lived a prince who was trés un-cozy and mucho unhappy.
The internet had not yet been invented, and he was forced to meet his princesses the old fashioned way—by placing an ad in the local door-to-door-delivered free Pennysaver paper.
His Royal Self didn’t fancy piña coladas or getting caught in the rain, so he turned to his Royal Minister of Public Relations, which, in a kingdom of one, was the frowning face in every mirror. Between the two of him, he penned the perfect, shallow, no-fail, courtship decree.
“Ladies, when was the last time you received a rose and a poem? Why sit at home when the last of the romantics is 27, a University grad, cartoonist, writer, dance demon, Billy Joel junky, Mozart maniac, 5’9”, 140 lbs. and questing for a princess, 19-30, slim, pretty… continue reading in Winter 2017 issue.
Don’t Kick the Cook
by Tim Reynolds
I have been eating for over half a century now and have spent a great deal of time in kitchens, professionally, practically, and even romantically.
If you can’t nuzzle while stirring pasta, what’s the point of cooking Italian? Although my skills have serious limits, I have discovered Three Basic Rules of food prep that I now pass on to you.
One: Salt to taste.
Two: Singed eyebrows grow back.
Three: Preheat the oven.
Salt to taste: My buddy Craig and were up at his family cottage for a weekend of fishing, rum, and cribbage. Since the fish weren’t biting that day, we went to our back-up plan, a simple, manly goulash that two twenty-something former Boy Scouts considered to be Cordon Bleu gourmet dining. Meat, veggies, more meat…perfect. When it came time to add a touch of seasoning, Craig tapped a pinch of salt straight from the shaker into the pot. Unfortunately, the shaker lid wasn’t screwed on quite as tight as it needed it to be and a half-full shaker’s worth of salt slid straight into the goulash… continue reading in Fall 2017 issue.
I live a boring little life, in a boring little duplex, on a boring little cul-de-sac, in a city whose most exciting event of the year revolves around cows.
I eat, I sleep, I go to work, I write, I hang out with my three beasts. My life is completely devoid of adventure and really always has been. If there was a color to describe my life, it would be Suburban Beige, the beigiest beige on the color wheel.
As a kid I wanted to be everything from an astronaut to a cowboy to a spy to a movie star, and finally, Elvis. None of it happened.
I’ve never even had the adventure of marriage, although I did once propose to a girlfriend at the airport before she left on a jet plane to fly across the continent to donate a kidney to her mother. No, she didn’t say ‘yes’. She laughed and said, “Are you kidding?”
I’ve never driven a Formula One race car, although I did park a Mini in the foyer of our college chapel… continue reading in Summer issue 2017.
Bachelor to Grandfather in a Blink
By Tim Reynolds
On my 41st birthday, I was a childless bachelor with a long history of living loose of foot and free of fancy. On my 42nd birthday I was four months into a terrific relationship that would last another thirteen years. Then, without any warning whatsoever from a certain inebriated palm reader or the sweet Psychic Tradeshow Tarot reader, I celebrated my 43rd birthday as a grandfather. Yes indeedy, I went from childless bachelor to grandfather in a blistering eighteen months. Somehow this old dog had managed to skip parenthood completely and jump straight down the rabbit hole to grandparenthood.
Baby Jake was born very suddenly due to an abruption his mother suffered. They were only a couple hours from either one or both of them not surviving. He was a lot of weeks early and spent most of it imprisoned in the Neonatal Care Unit under heavy guard. It was a long time before I was allowed to hold this little bundle of wonder, but I did get to see him incubating a few hours after his hatching. He was wrinkly, and red, and so tiny I was afraid to even breathe near his chamber of life. As time passed, he grew strong and bigger.
When Jake-the-Snake…continue reading.
The Lighter Side: Name That Therapy
by Tim Reynolds
My family has been around for a long time, as I’m sure yours has. For too many generations to count, the Reynolds Family Tree has been full of greats and not-so-greats, but I think the time has finally come for us to get some serious, professional therapy.
Our arboreal graphic includes sailing over on The Mayflower, acquiring the rights to Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket for 40 pounds and two beaver skin hats, the longest missionary effort in Christendom, involvement in the American Revolution, being chased out of the US after said revolution, bringing Canada together as a nation, and being present at the Russian Revolution. Fidel Castro even tried to recruit my Navy pilot father to help him take back his homeland from some dictator name Batista, but that’s a story for another time.
I used to think that the shadiest part of my family history was being chased out of Salem, Massachusetts way back when, but then I happened to look a wee bit closer at the more recent sections of this glorious Tree of Me. My concern really took root when I looked at my own parents…read more in the Fall issue of SEARCH Magazine.
In the Summer Issue of SEARCH Magazine,
Defying Death to Impress a Girl
by Tim Reynolds
“I was once a reckless teenage idiot, and to prove it, I’ll tell you, my faithful SEARCH readers, a true story.
Some facts. Her name was Marla, we were both eighteen, and we worked at a suburban summer day camp. I was a non-swimmer, mostly because I was so skinny I sank like a stone and could never pass the tests. I was also a magician—with a crush.
Ironically, one of my jobs at camp was to teach swimming, which was fine, just so long as I stayed out of the deep end. I even had students pass their beginners test before I did.
I performed my magic act for birthday parties or the occasional Bar Mitzvah, and it sometimes involved a Houdini-like escape from small chains locked around my wrists. The chains were real and so was the lock. If trouble happened on dry land, my assistant would use the key to release me from my humiliation. Of course, to impress Marla, I wasn’t going to escape on dry land. Reckless. Idiot…” to read the full article, check out the free eCopy here.
In the Spring Issue of SEARCH Magazine,
20 DUMB, IDIOTIC STEPS TO SELF-PUBLISHING
WHAT NOT TO DO
by Tim Reynolds
“I have self-published four books, and my sales rival Stephen King’s. Okay, maybe they’re not that good, but I’ve sold at least twenty books, if by ‘sold’ I mean ‘gave away to friends and family’. What I’m getting at is, all I know is that I know nothing, and I’m sharing it all with you. Everyone wants to publish a great book, but few do, so let’s get started.
- Don’t hire an editor. The average reader reads at a sixth-grade level, and as a writer you write gooder than that. They won’t notice the handful of mistakes on each page. Having a polished, professional publication is highly over-rated, and as expensive as a, well, as an expensive thing.
- Don’t do any cover research. Don’t go to any large chain bookstores and take notes on the colors and designs of the best sellers on the same shelves where your book will go. Your cover is a personal statement. Don’t worry about people judging your book…” to read the full article, check out the free eCopy here.
Santa, Seniors, and a Goat
by Tim Reynolds
“I used to be Santa Claus, and I lived in a place called The Land of a Million Christmas Trees.
No, I haven’t been to too many wine tastings. I once worked at a grand, century-old railway hotel a mile up in the Rockies, and because we were covered in snow by mid-October, seniors homes and corporations drove up from the big city to have a holiday lunch or fancy group dinner. By mid-November, the hotel was decorated to the rafters with trees, garlands, lights—the whole shebang.
Since people drove almost two hours, they expected to get a visit from Jolly St. Nick, and when I wasn’t working the hotel’s switchboard, I was one of two Santas on call.
The corporate parties were pretty much all the same—either I “Ho! Ho! Hoed!” into the room and gave out candy canes at each table, or I sat and gave out their gifts for them. But it was the senior lunches where I recharged my joy and silliness batteries for the rest of the winter. My routine was short and simple: I approached each big round table of eight and greeted each guest, leaving who I estimated to be the most elderly of the ladies until last. I knelt down next to her, slyly read her name tag, and said just loud enough for her and her tablemates to hear, “You haven’t been to see me in awhile, Alice.” to read the full article, download the free eCopy of SEARCH Magazine‘s Winter Issue.