Lifetime Sentences

By Jim Hagarty
1989

So many questions from our early childhood education remain unanswered.

For example, what was Little Red Riding Hood’s real name? Obviously, Little Red was a nickname, so what was her actual first name? And her last two names? They don’t make any sense. Unless her mother was a Riding and her father was a Hood. But in that case, Riding-Hood would be hyphenated, wouldn’t it?

In the story, the little girl wasn’t riding anything on her way to her grandma’s house so Riding can’t refer to that. I suppose, her name might describe the little red hood she wore that would ride up on her neck.

But even if we knew all that, we still are waiting after all this time to find out the grandmother’s name. The author gives us not a clue. Neither is there any indication where on earth Ms. Hood and her granny and the big, bad wolf lived. Or what year the incident described in the story took place.

To a newspaper editor, these are all questions that should have been answered and while I found the Riding Hood fable entertaining when I was a child, I now realize what a bad piece of journalism it was.

The same shoddy writing accompanies other children’s literary figures including Little Boy Blue, Goldilocks and The Three Bears and Jack and The Beanstalk.

So when a four-year-old niece recently began singing Old MacDonald Had A Farm for me, I’d had enough. No more vague generalities about these popular characters would do. I wanted answers.

So, I started asking questions, like a journalist would. To my surprise, information I had never been able to come up with before, was readily available from my little relative.

“This Old MacDonald guy,” I said to Anne. “What’s his first name, anyway?”

She paused only briefly, before replying without further hesitation or even a trace of doubt.

“Fernisie.”

“Old McDonald’s first name is Fernisie?

“Yes,” she said.

“I see,” said I. “Is Fernisie married?”

“Yes,” said Anne.

“And what’s his wife’s name?” I pressed.

“Kenny,” she said, with as much assurance as if she was repeating her own name.

“I see,” I said. “Fernisie and Kenny MacDonald. I never knew their names.

“Tell me, how old is Fernisie?”

“Three.”

“And how old is Kenny?”

“Five.”

“No kidding? And where do they live?”

“In a school,” said Anne.

“But I thought you said old MacDonald had a farm?”

“He does, but he also has a school.”

“Uh huh. Well, how long has he owned this farm?”

“He bought it 50 years ago,” said Anne. Not a bad accomplishment for a three-year-old farmer and his five-year-old wife, I thought.

As Anne ran full speed from the living room to the den and back again, I could sense the interview was nearing an end. Like a radio station at night the reception was starting to fade in and out.

Still, I needed to know more.

“What colour hair does Fernisie MacDonald have?” I ventured.

“Yellow,” exclaimed Anne with a tone that betrayed a certain level of irritation at my persistent curiosity. I was able to find out that F. and K. MacDonald had a dog that said “moo, moo” a lot; in fact, it said it here, there and everywhere, but after that, the station faded out for good. Just when I was really getting somewhere.

Still, I have enough to start my story.

“A source close to Old MacDonald revealed today …”

By Jim Hagarty
2014

I’ve lost interest in hockey and probably couldn’t even make the cut in the beer belly league now. Same with baseball. Never was big on soccer, tennis, bowling.

But there is one sport I am thinking of taking up and it’s one I think I might even be good at. That is the sport of shin-kicking and over the weekend, a Vancouver man was crowned world champion at the Cotswold Olimpicks in Chipping Camden, England.

I’ve always been good at kicking and am usually mad enough to want to hurt somebody’s shins. And here’s the clincher: I have been to Chipping Camden. If that isn’t a sign for me to take up this cool activity, I don’t know what is.

The sport is 400 years old. It involves kicking your opponent’s shins as you try to throw him to the ground. That must hurt, you say? Maybe, but participants do get to shove hay down the legs of their pants for protection. Growing up on the farm, it seemed at haying time I always had hay in my pants. The sport was waiting for me. And I was occasionally kicked on the farm, most often by annoyed cattle.

I’m a bit disappointed the shin-kickers have gone soft over the past 200 years though. They used to cap the toes of their boots with metal but that is against the rules now. Today’s shin-kickers might be wimps but with some practice, I think I could take ’em.

Yes, wind me up and I would gladly kick the shin out of all of them.

By Jim Hagarty
2007

Most times I love our two housecats or am pretty much indifferent to them. These two brothers are cute and a lot of fun.

Other times, they are so annoying, they could send a Buddhist Monk over the edge. Not being a monk, imagine the effect they have on me.

For instance. Every morning, the “boys”, as they are called, want desperately to get through the kitchen door out into the garage where their favourite kitty litter tray awaits. The one in the basement is too confining, it seems, with its attached hood, as it appears even they cannot stand the lovely scent left behind by their visits. Better to head out to the uncovered pan in the garage where a cat can sit upright and have a good think while waiting for nature to reveal its greatness. None of this is the annoying part.

This is what infuriates:

Among the truly awful things in life – you can devise your own list – is soggy breakfast cereal. I make sure every day that I have all necessary items in place at the table before I take the irreversible step of pouring the milk onto the crisp new flakes, or rice puffs or mini wheats, or whatever. Because once that liquid hits the solids, the window of opportunity for eating your cereal at its tastiest best is a very small one. We’re talking seconds, not minutes. The flakes begin to degrade the moment they are soaked and must be inserted in mouth quickly or they become milk-saturated corn mush before your very eyes.

Now, this is where the boys come in. Literally, come in.

I know cats don’t understand anything about soggy cereal but I am perfectly aware of the fact that they have very good hearing. In light of that, I don’t know whether they wait for certain sounds to impress their eardrums before making their move, but here’s how it goes.

I pull out my chair, sit down, pour the milk, lift two bites with my spoon and…

Scratch, Scratch, Scratch, Scraaaatchuhhh!

Ignore the sounds of cats scratching at the door to get back in, I am advised, but I cannot. Past experience has shown they will scratch till they somehow make their paws bleed. Really. I bolt from my chair, and rush to the door. Sensing my annoyance, they hang back when the door opens, not sure what awaits. When they finally make their move, they shoot through the opening like bullets through a gun barrel.

Back at the table, I face a mess of steadily deteriorating flakes. This does not amuse.

I have tried to outsmart them but the only sure thing I have discovered in my 56 years is that the cat always wins.

So, I pull in the chair and bang my spoon against the cereal bowl a couple of times. In short, I make all the sounds I would if I were actually eating.

Not a scratch to be heard.

I recently waited five minutes to prove to my unbelieving family that I was not imagining things.

No scratches.

I picked up the milk, poured it carefully across the flakes, and sprinkled on some sugar.

Two bites.

Scratch, scratch, scratch. Scraaaatchuhhh!

Can cats possibly hear the sound of milk being poured on cornflakes from 15 feet away through a thick, wooden door?

I believe they can.

And I believe in another old saying about these strange creatures we allow to walk around our homes: The cat is always on the wrong side of the door.

Back to my opening paragraph. Sometimes I love ’em, sometimes I don’t, and sometimes I’m indifferent.

Other times, I look down to see this little defiant bundle of fur and bones walking across our floors and wonder what odd creatures humans are to willingly share their space with such beings.

Someday, I know, they’ll be gone and I’ll feel badly.

Except at breakfast time.

By Jim Hagarty
2018

I have never been a pastor, so forgive me if I do not know all the ways a pastor should behave. The only thing that comes to my mind about being a pastor is that he should probably be kind, loving and helpful. Perhaps even wise. And maybe his family should be too.

But this is where my ignorance and reality collide sometimes, I will readily admit. If you are a pastor in Toledo, Ohio, you might have a different view of the whole pastoring best practices protocol. Because in that city, a pastor and two of his family members apparently rushed into their church and ambushed a Sunday school teacher who was in the process of teaching a class. After physically attacking her, the pastor, his wife and daughter, dumped out the contents of the teacher’s purse. When the teacher tried to recover her belongings, the pastor pointed a loaded gun at her and threatened to kill her. The pastor, his wife and their 19-year-old daughter, then scooped up their haul, fled the church and are currently on the run from police.

Reflecting on this, the old expression, “Things your find in a woman’s purse” comes to mind. I have not gone through very many women’s purses over my lifetime, but it makes me wonder just what it is they are carrying around in those things that would be so apparently valuable.

I know I am probably missing something here. But am I wrong to wonder what is being taught in pastor schools these days? When I was growing up, things like this hardly ever happened.

I can’t wait to hear what the good reverend has to say to his flock in his next sermon from the pulpit. Maybe, “Rob thy neighbour as thyself”?

By Jim Hagarty
2018

Canadians are too polite. Thank God we are. Sorry if that offends you. (See? And I haven’t even said anything offensive. Yet.)

In Canada, we are raised to not consider the individual to be a god. We learn pretty quickly that we belong to communities and that if we want to live long and prosper, we had better make room for others. This means abiding by laws we might not like, rules that seem ridiculous. Yes, we have our heroes, but we know they are simply people above all else. I once talked to a guy who had peed in a urinal next to Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau who was relieving himself in the urinal beside him while being Prime Minister. They struck up a conversation while answering nature’s call.

A little thing, but I recently went to pay for my coffee at the drivethrough window. I was told the woman in the car ahead of me had already paid for it. I asked what the car behind me had ordered. Also a coffee. So I paid for that guy’s coffee. Didn’t hurt a bit and made me feel good all day.

I bought the house I still live in 32 years ago. A few months after I moved in, I got into a small fracas with a neighbour. I told an older co-worker about it the next day. He dropped what he was doing, made me look him straight in the face, and said, “If you want to be happy in your new home, don’t fight with your neighbours.” His earnestness stopped me in my tracks. I took his advice and dropped whatever little thing had been bugging me. I have lived happily in my home for 32 years.

I do not get along with everyone in this world but those I disagree with, I try to go around. I cross the street when someone unpleasant is coming my way. And I know people who don’t want to encounter me are doing the same thing. I am not everyone’s cup of tea. I know that. I sometimes think of the two road ragers in the United States a year or so ago who pulled their cars off onto the shoulder, jumped out of their vehicles, whipped out their guns and shot each other dead. Two middle-aged white men. They gave up their lives because somebody cut somebody off, or some such horror.

Canadians have all the same problems as other societies. But we do not worship our leaders, our history or even our rights. We enshrine new rights when they are inevitable and discard old ones when they are unproductive. We do not vote for our leaders directly. They are chosen by our political parties and discarded by those same parties, not by the voters.

We look out for each other. I’ve mentioned this nugget before. My neighbour rang my doorbell a while back and asked me sheepishly if he could borrow MY key to HIS house, having locked himself out. He has a key to my house. I always want to live in a town and country where I can enjoy that level of trust. And absence of fear.

You can have your Wild Wild West. I prefer my Mild Mild Best.

By Jim Hagarty
2014

The brain is a funny thing. Everybody has one (I think) but the mind that goes with it can sometimes be missing or defective.

Take David Scofield, 50, of Akron, Ohio, for example. He liked to spend time impersonating a police officer. No big deal. Who hasn’t done that? I often arrest people for fun on weekends and even issue speeding tickets (after I chase them for 10 miles to make sure they speed up.)

In any case, poor old David found a way to screw it up for the rest of us. He got caught this week when he tried to pull over a real officer. Akron police say a man driving a Ford Crown Victoria with a spotlight and made to look like a police car tried to block the path of a real Akron officer on his way to work Monday night. He had a rifle, shotgun, handguns, a bullet-proof vest, a silencer and ammunition in his car.

Police say Scofield is a firearms dealer from Lancaster. He was arrested on misdemeanor charges of impersonating a police officer, carrying concealed weapons and obstructing official business. He was in the Summit County Jail where records didn’t say if he had an attorney. However, if I could venture a guess, I think David’s next gig will be impersonating an attorney. After that, he’ll be a jailbird, no impersonation required.

His best impersonation so far is that of a total world-record-shattering idiot on steroids but something tells me he did not have to practise for that role in front of a mirror.