What Day is This?

By Jim Hagarty
2006

If I nod off in the middle of this, just tuck me in, turn off the light and shut the door. I’ll be fine in the morning. You see, I have been suffering my annual bout of over-awareness in a month that has been asking an awful lot of someone with such a short attention span. Fortunately, May is Mental Health Month, so my chances for recovery are looking better than if this had happened, say, in July.

The first week of this month, of course, was Education Week in Ontario. I just learned about it the other day and while it was nice to see a special week set aside for education, it seems to me I’ve endured about 2,875 Education Weeks in my life so far, as I am not able to remember a week that went by when I didn’t learn something whether I wanted to or not.

May 6 was International No Diet Day. Again, a bit redundant, unless you call a bad diet, a diet. Last week was National Emergency Preparedness Week but I have got to be honest with you: I was not prepared for it. National Road Safety Week started on Tuesday but I am having trouble seeing the point. I have never yet seen a road that wasn’t safe – but I have seen a lot of unsafe drivers hurtling along on top of them. Monday was International Day of Families, a day actually decreed by the United Nations as a way to recognize the importance of families. And while they are supremely important, it is fitting that a day devoted to families falls within a month devoted to mental health. Take that however you like.

I got some “rotten news” last week (that was the clever headline on top of the press release) when I was notified that May 7-13 is International Compost Awareness Week. I almost broke down when I learned about it. Just about came apart, in fact. (Should be a Bad Puns Day). The reality is, most of the time, it is not too hard to be aware of my composters as they tend to send up a very aromatic signal that they’re there. I know, I know: If they smell, you’re doin’ it wrong, but I’m long past the fun of turning the piles, adding layers of leaves, sprinkling in some soil, tossing in a handful of earthworms. Now if I can just convince the many mice who have built apartments and streets in my composters that I have not purposely accumulated organic material to satisfy their needs for habitation, I will count myself lucky.

Last week was Nursing Week across Canada and I’m glad it was. Some of my favourite people in the world have been nurses including the ones who helped me arrive on the scene. But I admit to a bit of jealousy mixed in with all this gratitude. When will somebody institute a Journalism Week? A week to mark the importance of reporters? National Editors’ Day. Columnists’ Month in Ontario. C’mon!!!!

This is not a good thing for me to dwell on as it tends to get me going but fortunately, May is Blood Pressure Month. And Saturday was World Hypertension Day, so l hope that’ll calm the nerves. I might head out in a canoe for a little natural sedation but of course next week is National Safe Boating Awareness Week so I’d have to spend my time making sure I didn’t end up doing handstands on the bottom of the creek.

The Canadian Landmine Foundation will be launching the Peacekeepers Day Yard Sale campaign this weekend, leading up to Peacekeepers Day on Aug. 9. Some of the yard sales I’ve been to could use a peacekeeper or two to separate those thrifty shoppers tussling over that awesome green velvet Elvis.

Maybe what we really need is a Don’t Be Cruel Day.

Keeping It Simple

By Jim Hagarty
2015
I heard about this great flower shop in the country this summer so I dropped in. I saw a colourful bouquet for $10 and a nice, green vase (all vases should be green) for $8. I took my treasures to the woman at the till and she said, “That will be $18.” I asked her why there was no sales tax. There is, she said, but we just work backwards, calculate 13 per cent of all our sales and send it in. We hire students and this is easier than training them to do all the calculating at the cash register. How simple. I like it. I wish more places did it.

A Dark and Stormy Night

By Jim Hagarty
1986

Monday night about 10:30 I set out from the home of the Bornholm relatives I was visiting, after waiting a while for a break in the torrential rainstorm that struck this area that evening. I turned my car east onto Perth County Road 11, heading for Highway 19, Stratford and home. Though the rain had subsided, the fierce lightning continued and many times over the next 20 minutes the countryside all around me was suddenly blanketed with blue light and the pitch-black sky was stabbed by powerful forks of brightly charged energy.

All in all, as cartoon dog Snoopy likes to write, “It was a dark and stormy night.” Dark, stormy and – scary. I had little doubt my car and I would make it all the way home but the disturbing thought that we might not, that an accident or some mechanical breakdown would leave us stranded by the side of the road, crept into my consciousness and stayed there. It would not have been a nice night to be wandering up and down the roads in search of help. Suddenly my home, my cats, my TV and my bed never seemed so appealing as they did just then. It appeared to be a good time to tell God if he got me home safely, I’d never go out in a storm again.

I was not the only one fleeing the tumult – a big frog bounded across the pavement at one point and a ground hog scurried from north ditch to south. But few other vehicles were out and it was lonely. The radio was no comfort so I shut it off. It was just me, the storm and 18 miles of road to travel.

It never storms in the city. The winds get up and the rain beats down and there’s thunder and a bit of lightning. But there are also street lights to lead the way and coffee shops to duck into and somehow, except, I guess, in cases where a tornado or a hurricane sweeps through an urban area, any terror associated with a real blaster is minimal.

But among my memories of growing up on a farm in the country are dozens of frightening encounters with winds so strong they bent tall trees over like blades of grass, with thunder cracks so loud they shook you from inside out, with lightning so powerful you could hear it sizzle and spark and skies so dark they seemed evil. Those storms were naturally frightening for a child – any child – but they were made even more fearsome by the knowledge that even the adults in the family were afraid of these out-of-control elements. Grownups could shoo away bogeymen, monsters and belligerent dogs but they couldn’t chase away the thunder and it was disturbing to realize there were things out there more powerful than parents.

Nevertheless, that same fear that made it seem like a real good idea to grab the covers and pull them up tight over your head or to find another bed already occupied by someone bigger than yourself and crawl in under their blankets, gave summer storms an aura that translated into excitement for rural folk of all ages. Reminisce with a businessman and he’ll remember booms and busts, recessions and depressions. Old newspapermen recall disasters, elections and famous people who came to town. Teachers think back to brilliants students and troublemakers.

But people from the country remember storms.

There used to be no better evening’s entertainment than a mid-summer cloudburst, an electrical storm or a blizzard in winter. They required numerous trips to the window to survey the scene and all eyes were glued to the drama outside. Candles appeared on the table in the event the hydro went off and everyone huddled together in one room as these were not good times to be off somewhere by yourself. Providing everyone was home and in the house, a terrible storm could be a pretty good time, especially if a friend, neighbour or relative got “stormstayed” overnight. It was usually a big letdown when a storm began blowing itself out and someone who would know these things remarked, “Well, it looks like it’s dying down.” It would be hard to get back to routine, especially if that meant school wouldn’t be cancelled.

I felt a bit of that excitement Monday night when the skies opened up before me as I drove through the storm. But nature, too often, for a city dweller is, well, just downright inconvenient and it was nice to get home.

Caution: Genius at Work

By Jim Hagarty
2015

Being a genius is not all fun and games. My mind is constantly working, looking for solutions to the world’s ills. This week I was sitting in a drivethrough lineup while a family of eight ordered their meals for the week, when inspiration struck. It strikes me a lot. I have many scars to prove it.

Environmentalists are very concerned about drivethrough restaurants. At any given time on any given day, hundreds of thousands of cars, vans and trucks are sitting in lineups, their engines idling, mufflers spewing crap into the atmosphere. There have been campaigns here and there to ban drivethroughs but the idea of armed insurrections by the villagers if ever a thing was done does not appeal to municipal officials.

Here is what needs to happen. I offer this at no charge to the world. Some clever people will figure out to “monetize” my brainwave.

Install moving driveways at every drivethrough, fancy conveyer belts that would stream all the vehicles in and out of the establishments. Once on the platform, engines could be shut off until the vehicles exit at the other end.

The Inventors’ Hall of Fame, here I come.

The Beer Bottle Blues

By Jim Hagarty
1990

The next time you witness something that disturbs you, and you’re sure you know exactly what’s going on and why, please think of what happened to me on Wednesday.

When I went to my car in the parking lot to head home from work, I saw an empty beer bottle lying on its side by my left front tire. Being an environmentally aware man of the ’90s and thinking about the dime I could earn just by returning the bottle to the store, I decided to pick it up.

No big deal.

I stood my prize upright on the floor of the car over on the passenger’s side and put the car in reverse. But as soon as the car moved, the bottle fell over. Worrying that it might spill some of its remaining contents on the rug, I picked up the bottle and gripped it in my right hand as I drove, holding it below the dash and away from me.

To this point, everything was going well and my good deed for the day was being done to my great satisfaction, even if the rest of the world was taking no notice of it all. But that’s the thing about good works. In order for them to benefit you spiritually, they shouldn’t be done in the glare of attention from the public. Quietly go about being wonderful and don’t ask for applause. You’ll get your reward somewhere along the line.

As for me, my reward’s still out there somewhere, seeing as how, predictably, I soon forgot I was carrying a beer bottle in my right hand and started driving with both hands on the steering wheel. This had the effect of raising the bottle well above the dash and into the full view of passersby on the sidewalks and drivers in other cars.

As I sat waiting for a red light at a busy intersection in town, I began to notice disapproving stares directed my way. People scowled as they crossed the street in front of my car and I started to get the feeling pedestrians were pointing at me.

At the same time, I suddenly felt a glare burning down on me like desert sun on sand and when I turned, I could see a look of great disapproval written on the face of the driver of the car waiting at the lights beside me. I looked away and then looked back to make sure it was me the man was scolding with his expression. When I was sure it was me, I gave him a sourpuss look of my own and mumbled something impolite under my breath.

“What a grouch,” I thought. “Cheer up, will ya? It can’t be that bad.”

Just before the light changed, I saw it – THE BEER BOTTLE! Dancing on the top of my steering wheel to the beat of the music on the radio. To the world at the corner of Waterloo and Ontario streets, I was a drinking and driving lunatic, a RIDE program renegade, having a party in my car in the middle of the afternoon. In broad daylight.

Guys like me should be stopped.

I put the bottle on the floor and drove through the intersection with my eyes straight ahead. This was one good deed from which I expect to get the full, spiritual benefit.

Cleanup in Aisle 5

By Jim Hagarty
2013
Nothing better to start your day than the sight of a steaming pile of cat barf on the carpet. Reluctantly, you dig out the cleaning supplies and return to the scene of the crime only to find hardly a trace of throw up and a dog sitting happily nearby with a very satisfied look on his face. Next challenge is to avoid dog kisses for the next five hours – or longer. This is what is called a bad news, good news, bad news story.

Are We Ready For Cloning?

By Jim Hagarty
1990

Drowning in an endless stream of disturbing news from everywhere, it’s easy to miss many important other stories taking place in the world.

One of those is the success Agriculture Canada scientists are having cloning cattle. After years of research, trial and error, they’re now close to perfecting a method of splitting cow embryos so they can reproduce in the lab almost any number they like of exactly identical cows. Already, three such cows and one bull have been cloned. And experts say there’s no reason this process shouldn’t work with other species of animals, including humans.

This development down the road of technological innovation, it seems to me, is a bit scary. How long will it be before a tyrant takes his fiercest, most able soldier and clones himself a million-man army of identical fighters? Or clones a couple hundred identical replicas of himself to take over leadership in the lands he conquers?

But there are other concerns.

In the United States, scientists have ventured even further in genetic manipulation than we have in Canada. According to Canadian Press: “Last month scientists in Texas announced they had produced genetically engineered calves by inserting genes from foreign species into fertilized eggs from cows. The foreign genes included one from humans. Researchers hope the additional genes will speed growth and make the cattle leaner.”

So, move over God, we’ve truly arrived at the time when we can produce designer animals. We can mix ’em up in a bowl like our favourite pies, pour them out on a tray, cook ’em and presto: instant horse, cow, dog, etc. We will be able to make them look like we want them to look, run as fast as we want them to run, even live as long as we want them to live by adding desirable genes from other animals.

What we may eventually get, by adding human genes to animals, for example, are cows that speak to their owners: “More hay over here, please!” Or cows that milk themselves.

And call themselves in from the fields.

But if we can add human genes and characteristics to animals so easily, the more frightening prospect is the certainty that soon we will be able to add non-human genes to humans. So, when we want to develop invincible high-speed runners, we’ll take a human embryo into the lab and throw in a little racehorse. When we want to raise the meanest, toughest professional wrestler around, we’ll toss a couple of pinches of gorilla into the bowl. (Watching some of them on TV, it’s open to question whether or not this has already been done.) On and on it could go. To develop long-distance swimmers, we’ll throw in some fish. For workers to develop that cold Antarctic continent, we’ll patch in some polar bear and penguin.

All this cloning and mingling of human and animal is bound to lead to many strange and frightening sights. Like pigs driving tractors and planting their own crops. And people with fins and gills who won’t need scuba gear to go take a look at the Titanic.

But now for the good news. Before your cute little Muffy’s born, the vet will bag up a few extra embryos for you which you can toss in the freezer. And when your precious little pet wanders out in front of that Mack truck, there’ll be no need to feel bad for long. You’ll just go back in the house, reach in your freezer and pop another Muffy into the microwave.

In fact, Muffy, probably part human anyway, may do the same for you when you go.

And some day in this crossbreeding future world, when someone angrily calls you a pig or a jackass, they might not be all that far off the truth.

Writers, of course, are leading the way as most of us already have some bull in us.