If I Had a Hammer

By Jim Hagarty
2012
This is why a career in construction was never in the cards for me, even though, when going to university, I spent three summers building bridges. An hour ago, I was trying to lift an open step ladder over a bunch of lumber in the garage, unaware that a big heavy hammer was sitting on the top of the ladder. I discovered this fact when the hammer flew off the ladder and hit me right on top of my head almost knocking me to my knees. I am now sporting a big red bloody mark on my scalp and I have lost about five IQ points but that is OK: I have plenty to spare.

My Very Own Sweetheart

By Jim Hagarty
2012

I was going through the drive-through at a fast food restaurant at noon hour today when the young woman who served me at the window asked me very cheerily and with a large smile how I was doing.

“Fine, thank you,” I replied.

She then handed me my junk and said, “Have a good day, sweetheart!”

Sweetheart? A young person of the opposite sex whom I have never met just called me sweetheart. I don’t mind saying this made me feel pretty darned good. But I was a little rattled, wondering why she called me by this term of endearment. Does she say that to everyone, I wondered, but then rejected that notion. She was very sincere and very clearly wanted me to know that she thought I was a sweetheart. (For awhile I wondered if what she really called me was a sweathog but then I decided that no, it was really sweetheart.) I finally came to the only conclusion that made any sense: She was blown away by my sheer awesomeness.

There I sat in my little rusting-out Chevy, with my cloth winter coat on covered in sawdust from working on the renovation project in my garage. I was also sporting about 10 days unmanaged beard growth and on my head, a barely scabbed over red spot where a falling hammer clobbered me last night. I also had not gotten around to brushing my teeth yet and had used no mouthwash which probably left me just a little nicer smelling than a water buffalo emerging from a day in the swamp. Oh yeah, and I have a drippy nose. Still, it is obvious that enough of my magnetism shone through all this to cause a twenty-something, attractive woman in a drive-through to call me her sweetheart. (Well, she didn’t really say I was HER sweetheart, but I think that’s what she meant.)

So, I spent the afternoon in a golden haze, preparing to live off this little bit of encouragement for many months to come until I heard on the radio later in the afternoon that today is National Compliments Day. You don’t suppose my girl was just following the spirit of the day, do you? Nah. If there weren’t a few decades’ difference in our ages, I would right now be fighting her off with a stick.

Reminds me of the tale of the 90-year-old man who was heading off on his honeymoon with his 20-year-old bride. A friend was worried about the effects an exciting wedding night might have on the old fella and he said to him, “Aren’t you worried, you know, about sudden death?”

“No,” said the old guy. “If she dies, she dies.”

I wonder if my fast-food server knows how good she made me feel with one little word. I think she does. I think she is just a happy soul.

I am not a charmer and not quick with buttery comments; I often think later about what I should have said in a certain situation. But one day a few years ago when I was helping deliver my kids’ newspapers I started walking up a driveway behind two young females who were heading to the home’s backyard for a party. I figured that out because they were carrying a case of beer. I saw them look back nervously at me, wondering why I was behind them. “Just following the beautiful women,” I said, before depositing the paper in the mailbox and returning to the street.

Both women immediately smiled big, broad grins and maybe even blushed a little. Finally, I thought, the right words were there just when I needed them and I managed to spit them out. Maybe I am wrong but I have a feeling those two felt a lot better about themselves for awhile after that.

I don’t know what made me say it. As far as I know it wasn’t National Compliments Days.

The Worst Idea Ever

By Jim Hagarty
2015

I have done the occasional stupid thing in my life. Dating two sisters in university and somehow thinking they wouldn’t compare notes and discover I took Anne out on Friday night and Jane on Saturday comes to mind. To make matters worse, they were both in some of my classes. That was a long semester after the inevitable discovery happened.

To this day, I take the long way around their hometown Thessalon when I am up in northern Canada, just to be safe.

But I will forever take comfort in knowing that so far, I have nothing to match the goofy decision a Brtish Columbia man made when he stole an unmarked police cruiser. Dumb, dumb, dumb. But do you know what was even dumber? There were two cops in the police car he stole.

So I will continue to stumble along, screw up now and then, but I will always check from now on, when stealing my next cruiser, that I ascertain the identities of the people seated inside before I drive away. If they happen to be sisters, I will hit the eject button.

My Summer, My Marigolds and Me

By Jim Hagarty
2007

A pretty darned decent thing it was of me to build a vegetable garden box in the back yard for my family to cultivate. At eight feet by 12 feet and 10 inches high, it is a great start: Filled to the brim with nice, loamy soil, just itching to start churning out the tomatoes, peas and carrots.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get the job accomplished till July, long after the ideal garden planting season. So, a brilliant idea occurred to me. Stuffed into bags and boxes in the shed are flower seeds dating back two decades. They accumulate, but never get planted. The new garden was calling to them and as I sorted through them, I plucked out a dozen small packets of marigold seeds. Enough, I assumed, to nicely fill a garden box of the dimensions already described. The seeds are tiny but I spread them as evenly as I could over the soil and then cultivated them in with a rake. All that was left to do was to water them and wait for the glory.

I was soon rewarded. Little green shoots started appearing in all the same spots where seeds had landed. A nice, Ireland-type shade of green. I realized (after I was told) that having planted them this late in the season, it might take some time for them to flower. But I was prepared to be patient.

Summer wore on and the water and heat did their jobs. My marigolds thrived and sprang from the ground so quickly, I could almost hear them growing. Every day, they were another inch taller, sometimes two. Remarkable. And I hadn’t even fertilized them.

Not really knowing what marigolds look like, I eagerly awaited my surprise – the day I awoke to see the first few flowers brightening the yard. What colour would they be? Orange? Yellow? Purple? I had no clue but was ready for anything.

Frankenstein-like, the plants kept shooting up until one day, they were waist high. In another few weeks, they were even with my head. I didn’t know whether or not marigolds would grow to over five feet tall, but if they did, I had a feeling I was witnessing a record-breaking crop. Every square inch of the garden box was filled with them now.

The other day, I remarked to a family member that my flowers would soon be blooming. They might, I was told, but if they did, it would be hard to see them, covered, as they were, by the five-foot-high weeds that had overtaken the box. Why this vital information was not delivered sooner, I am still wondering.

My “marigolds” filled three yard-waste bags on Monday night. My application for Master Gardener status has been rejected.

The Dog Days of Christmas

By Jim Hagarty
2015

A man’s needs and wants change with the years. I remember wanting a slot car set one Christmas. A guitar another time. Paint by numbers, cameras, books, records, clothes by the rack full, digital anything.

This year I asked for – and got – a backscratcher. Twelve hours since I opened that metal beauty with extendable arm and there is not an itch anywhere that is even dreaming of sneaking up on me. But our dogs and two cats have discovered the darned thing too and I can see that a great deal of time will spent by me in 2016 scratching their little bodies into states of blissful submission.

However, discord has arisen as they fight over whose turn it is next, and in the case of the dog, whether or not cats are worthy candidates for scratching at all. (Spoiler Alert: He has concluded they are not.)

I have already made up my wish list for next Christmas and there is only one item on it: Another backscratcher.