All Boxed In

By Jim Hagarty

A friend told me I think too much. So I went home and thought about that. All day. And now, I think, she might be on to something. Recently, for example, I started thinking: “Wait a minute. On April 7, I am going to walk out onto a stage with a wooden box with a hole in it with six plastic strings attached, and with my eight fingers and two thumbs, I am going to do something to the box to try to entertain a group of innocent people who have gathered there and paid money to hear sounds from my wooden box and whatever I manage to force out of my voice box.” At least I think that is what I’ve been thinking.

(Tonight, at The Hall in Stratford. Valdy and I in concert.)

Author: Jim Hagarty

I am a 65-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don't deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather's blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.

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