Lifetime Sentences

By Jim Hagarty
1994

The interesting thing about news is that readers can never predict, with any certainty, what it is they’ll be confronted with on the front page of their paper from day to day. Yes, there are government budget stories, elections and scandals, civil wars and natural disasters. And then there are endless ramblings about the economy, the recession, the recovery, the interest rates, blah, blah, blah.

But who could have guessed one of the hot stories of the past few weeks would be about an American teenager being caned with a rattan reed across his bare buttocks as his punishment for vandalizing a bunch of cars in Singapore? Not since Lorena Bobbitt dealt out a bit of punishment of her own a while back, has such a bizarre story made the headlines.

And while the story couldn’t have been predicted, the reaction to it was anything but a surprise. Michael Fay’s bum rap has, of course, touched off a North American firestorm of discussion about the “issue” of corporal punishment and whether or not our society is too lenient with offenders.

What’s to discuss? Of course we’re too lenient. What we need, especially in this country, is a bunch of canings. Maybe even a few floggings. And to heck with this behind-closed-doors nonsense. Let’s have ’em right out in public and show ’em live on CNN.

If Michael Fay got four lashes for painting up a few cars, then the following North American offenders deserve the various punishments listed below.

• Ontario Premier Bob Rae – eight slaps on the you-know-what with a long piece of a used tire for not allowing companies to burn tires for fuel, preferring instead to see them pile up in ditches and woodlots;

• Ontario Attorney General Marion Boyd – ten flips of a rolled-up wad of legal paper for treating Ontario residents with contempt by churlishy muttering “no comment” to questions about what’s going on in the Paul Bernardo murder trial as if it was absolutely none of our business;

• American comic actor Roseanne Barr – ten snaps of her husband’s bathtowel on the place in which she’s been such a pain for the past few years. As she has been known to “moon” large crowds of people for fun, getting her to prepare for her punishment might not be the problem it would at first appear to be;

• Former Prime Minister Brian Mulroney – twelve smacks on the backside with Jean Chretien’s Red Book for wanting a $60,000 private washroom built at the National Archives for his convenience while he works on his “papers”;

• National Parole Board member Gil Bellavance – fourteen claps from an inmate’s belt, two for each of the seven people who were murdered because he released five notorious criminals who continued killing when they hit the streets. As well, two extra flips of the belt for taking no responsibility for his decisions and calling criticisms of him, “cheap shots”;

• The person who invented TV “infomercials”, those half-hour carnival barker’s dream come true designed to drive late-night viewers crazy – twenty smacks from a rope made out of shredded TV Guides.

Administered personally by yours truly.

By Jim Hagarty
2012

My family and I went public skating in a big city shopping mall rink on Saturday. I was pretty wobbly out there, not having strapped on my ancient blades in some time. And my skates actually are pretty old. Old enough that other skaters stop and remark, “OMG, what kind of skates are those?”

After a few shaky turns around the rink, I decided to sit on the players’ bench for a break. As I sat there and looked at the throng out on the frozen sheet of water, it occurred to me that I was the oldest skater there. At 61, in my normal, everyday life, I don’t feel that old, but skating that day with a rink full of younger folks, the idea that time is passing by took hold. I looked down at my skates and then at the crowd and realized that, at 36 years of age, my skates were older than 95 per cent of the skaters out there. Then, looking at some of toddlers poking along like newborn calves on their shaky pins, struggling to stand, it came to me that my underwear was probably older than some of them.

Finally, rested up, I went back out and felt it coming back to me a bit, my skating was gradually improving. Maybe the fact that my blades are covered in rust accounted for some of my problems.

Then, a tall young man sporting a really nice Team Canada hockey jersey skated my way, and when he passed me, I stared at disbelief at the big number on the back of his sweater: 61.

Aw, c’mon, I sighed to myself in disgust. Really? There were not enough reminders of the passing of my years for me to see that day without a guy skating by with my age emblazoned on his sweater?

No other hockey sweaters on the other skaters, no other numbers. Just 61. Father Time was outright mocking me now.

What a jerk!

By Jim Hagarty
2006

Words have been a big part of my life, as they are with everybody’s. The majority of people, however, don’t count on them to make their living. I do, and I enjoy working with them as a carpenter might revel in the smell of newly sawn lumber.

Lately, for some reason, I’ve been thinking a lot about words and their place in my life. I have no idea what my first ones were, maybe something along the lines of, “Can I have a cookie?” I also have no clue what my last words will be, but they could very well be the same as my first. In fact, an interesting endeavour is to look up (easy on the Internet) the final words of famous people throughout history. Some are sad and touching, some rather funny. An opera singer once sang a long and loud “Goodbye!” just before he collapsed and died on stage.

All through my growing up years, words became useful tools, put to work in a variety of ways to avoid responsibility, to enact revenge, to ask questions and learn about the world. The same mouth that could produce words of such beauty they were the linguistic equivalent of a string of pearls, could let loose a garbage bin volley meant to cut down and destroy.

In fact, though I had pretty much heard all the profane words available to me by the time I was 16, it wasn’t until I worked for a summer building a bridge in Kitchener that I learned from two recently immigrated Scottish carpenters how to put them together into very effective sentences. If there was any sort of awards handed out for cussing, the walls of these two feisty guys’ homes would be lined with plaques. Even today, under great pressure, charged with anger or filled with fear, the teachings of the Scotsmen can still bring themselves forward to my lips.

Other, gentler words, made their appearance in high school, as the interest in girls grew. Of special importance became the phrase: “Can I kiss you?” sometimes followed by the question, “Why not?” Even more awkward: “Would you like to go out with me again?” Other useful phrases at the time: “Can I bum a cigarette?” “Here’s the money I owe you.” “Can I have an extension on the assignment?”

Words you hear spoken to you in your life are also highly important. In your working years, “Can you start work on Monday?” is a pleasant thing to hear. Not so welcome is, “We expect you to be out of your office by noon tomorrow.” Still later: “You’ve bought yourself a car.” “They’ve accepted your offer on the house.” “Your loan has been approved.”

Of course, being no different from the rest of humanity, “I’m sorry” are two of the hardest words for me to say, though usually the most valuable if I can find the guts to get them out. And “I love you” is still a stickler. Not so hard to say to your kids. Not so easy for your parents. Sometimes very difficult for your wife.

Why are the most valuable words often the hardest to use? And why, in a crisis, do the words “God help me!” just come flying out?

I remember years ago reading somewhere that we have about 400,000 different English words available for our use. I’m sure I don’t know a fraction of those, but I know quite a few, I think. Of all those thousands, what is my favourite one? “Chocolate” might rank right up there. “Beatles” is a big one for me.

What is the favourite word I have ever had spoken to me? “Yes” was right up there, after I said, “Will you marry me?” But never have I heard, in my 55 years, a word that even came close to the beauty of this one, especially the first time I heard it: “Daddy”. I will never get tired of hearing it, no matter what future form of it is used to address me. To hear the word “Dadda” spoken to you by a child just before he or she drifts off to sleep in their bed at night, is to know joy.

Another favourite word.

By Jim Hagarty
2015

I just breezed past a website that offered tips to improve my writing. I didn’t read the tips. Not because my writing can’t be improved, but because I have no interest in improving it.

Words and all the structures we employ in our use of them are just tools, nothing more. They are to be used to share the contents of a heart and a soul with those who read them.

I play guitar by ear and am no virtuoso. I don’t care to be. I also don’t want to look at a list of 10 writing tips when I sit down at the computer. My guitar expresses me and so does my keyboard.

My approach is simple. First, I observe. Then I think about what I have observed. Finally, I translate those thoughts into words.

I had a great English teacher when I was a kid. She laid the best writing tools at my feet and I picked them up. I am forever grateful to her. And to my father who showed me the beauty of argument and logic as well as irony. Also to my mother, my favourite storyteller.

Just as a woodworker revels in his latest, well-crafted table, I am thrilled when I know that something I have written is good. How readers react to it doesn’t matter much. Applause and acclaim are never the goal. The purpose is communication.

I spent my life searching for my passion, not realizing it was in my possession almost from the time I could walk. I love words. Written, spoken, sung. And when a skillful writer moves me, I am knocking on Heaven’s door.

Coca Cola owes $3.3 billion in unpaid taxes to the United States government so it informed the IRS it won’t be paying. Glad that’s all cleared up. – JH

By Jim Hagarty
2007

I can hardly believe the state to which teaching has fallen. Having once been a teacher who gave copious amounts of misdirection to dozens of high school and college students, I fear for the state of the profession.

It has come to this. It is no longer permissible for a teacher to bite the thigh of a student who is trying to give him a wedgie. I joke not. A high school wrestling coach in Oregon has been disciplined for chomping down on a student’s leg after a half dozen huge wrestlers pounced on him and tried to wedgie him. (For the uninitiated, to administer a wedgie is to grab a person’s underwear at the back and hoist it up around his ears, a painful and embarrassing exercise.)

A state commission blasted Peter Porath for leaving “distinct teeth marks” on the inside of the student’s leg when he tried to get the wrestlers off him. In its wisdom, the commission called that “gross neglect of duty” and put him on probation for two years. As well, Porath must complete a class on appropriate behaviour and write a public apology to the student he bit.

Where oh where have the good old days gone when a teacher could gnaw away at a student’s limbs and not hear a thing about it? In fact, if a student thus bitten made the mistake of reporting it to his parents he would be apt to receive another bite or two from his father for his troubles. Now, apparently, it is wrong to do such a thing. However, it is OK, apparently, for a half dozen wrestling students to jump on a coach and try to strangle him with his own undershorts.

This is my dilemma. I am trying to think back to my days as a high school student to imagine what might have been the result of my joining a group of students to yank on the undergarments of one of our teachers. These were teachers not far removed from the days of unbridled corporal punishment in the schools. A vice-principal at my school once backhanded a girl across the face and heard not a word about it. I don’t think she had her hand anywhere near his underapparel at the time of what today, of course, would be called assault.

But this is Oregon, I guess I should remember, and maybe things are a bit different south of the border where, it appears, a not-unheard-of job hazard for teachers is the occasional beating by gangs and a wound or two from a gunblast. I hope they’re paid well to endure the abuse.

Beatings and bullets aside, however, wedgies at the hands of your students have to rank right up there as some sort of last straw and I’ve got to say I can’t blame poor old Peter Porath for putting his chompers to work. I am sure his arms and legs were rendered of no use to him by the wrestlers and so his pearly whites were about all he had left to bring about a bit of payback and hopefully a reprieve from the the thrashing. I have to say if I was in his position, I would hope I would have had the presence of mind to do the same thing – state commission reprimand or not.

If I had had to write a public apology to that student, this is what I would have written: “I am sorry that I was silly enough to turn my backs on the students that I am trying to guide into adulthood and for whom I am giving up time to teach them the sport of wrestling, without taking into account the notion that I might one day be jumped by them and have my underwear tugged at and stretched till it looked like a flowery rubber band. I am sorry that in my desperation to be free of six out-of-control young athletes, I took it upon myself to administer a bit of pain of my own.

“Most of all, I’m sorry I didn’t bite down a bit harder.”

By Jim Hagarty
2012

A friend send me a bit of a nasty email. He has a bad habit of doing this. Almost every time he hits “send”, his list of real-life friends gets a little shorter. I hang in there, but it isn’t easy.

I replied to this latest email very carefully, as I always try to do, in order to avoid the mountain-molehill phenomenon. I kept writing, then backing up and erasing and starting again, to choose better wording. At one point, a part of one of my sentences read, “…if you want to…” I erased that line and wrote something else. But maybe I didn’t get rid of it all. Just before I hit send on my reply, I notice some stray letters at the very start of the message, right at the top. They were: “f you”. They were left over from “if you want to.”

A Freudian slip? My true feelings? I don’t know, but I broke out in a sweat, deleted the f you and sent the message.

Maybe I should have left those four tiny letters in. Or maybe I’ll use them in my reply to the next nasty message which I know will be coming soon. The worst thing that ever happened to my friend was the invention of email. Seriously. Worst thing. Ever. And I am not effin’ kidding.