The Oldtimers’ Lament

By Jim Hagarty
2017

When I was young, I would get nervous if I was walking alone and I saw a group of young men walking my way on the sidewalk. Not sure why, but three of them, one of me, never know. Sometimes I would avoid them by turning into a store or crossing the street.

Now that I am getting old, I noticed something odd recently. I no longer fear groups of young men who, it seems, are pretty deferential to old guys. The guys I do fear now are other old guys.

This happened to me yesterday. I was strolling along a sidewalk on the way to a pharmacy when I saw an old fellow standing by the bank and looking around for maybe another old guy to talk to. Mean of me, I know, but I hastened my step, avoided eye contact and kept on moving. I did this because, to my annoyance, I have been caught in old guy conversations a few too many times.

I shouldn’t over generalize, I know, but the themes of these conversations are somewhat predictable. 1. The weather. 2. The good old days. 3. The health issues of my sudden conversation partner. 4. The sorry state of the world today. 5. The problem with the younger generations.

I was surprised, however, when standing in line at the grocery store the other day with a man 20 years my senior who opened up a conversation out of the blue about the Toronto Maple Leafs and their prospects for the upcoming hockey season. He didn’t just have general comments to make – he had facts, figures, names. Finally, an old guy living in the today and seemingly pretty happy to being doing so. I didn’t get many words in edgewise but at least there was no talk of bowel obstructions, wild kids, the wonders of yesteryear and how the world will probably end in 20 years or so.

I have been called eccentric and I am happy to own the title. How many old guys do you know who are terrified by the gangs of other old guys roaming the streets these days? I have a feeling your answer is “just one” and that one is the guy whose words you have just read.

For Sale: This 1949 Ford Two-Door Coupe

I was driving around the countryside outside of Stratford on Saturday night when I saw this lovely 1949 Ford two-door coupe at the end of a farmer’s laneway. The farmer, who owns a number of classic car, bought this one a couple of years ago and has done some work on it but is trying to pare back his collection. If anyone is interested in this vehicle, let me know and I will try to put you in touch with the owner. JH

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My Bottomless Jar of Wonder

By Jim Hagarty
2014

I don’t believe in magic. Everything can be explained. With one exception.

My Magical Jar.

I wish it contained loonies and toonies or hundred dollar bills, but it doesn’t. It contains screwnails. It’s a one-litre peanut butter jar I cleaned out about 30 years ago and into which I tossed the few screws I had at the time. Since then, that jar has never run out of screws nor has it overflowed but it has almost always had just the screws I need for any project.

On Sunday, for example, I needed six weather-treated deck screws, exactly one-and-one-quarter inches long. I had no idea whether or not I had any deck screws in the jar, let alone that length. But I dumped all the screws out and went fishing. A few minutes later, in my hand, were the six screws I needed, exactly the right length. The funny thing is, there were no other screws like that in the jar.

This happens all the time. I go to that jar several times a week and remove some of its contents. But no matter how many screws I take out, the level of them in the jar, which is always about half full, never seems to change. A loaves and fishes kind of thing.

I might need two, one-inch brass woodscrews. There they are. Four, two-inch metal screws. Ditto.

I never consciously go to the store to buy screws to top up the jar. But I do buy new screws on occasion for a project and I guess the leftovers go into the jar. Also, I accumulate screws from various items we buy for the house and which seem to be unneeded. However the screwnails get into that jar, the jar is always forthcoming. Like a golden goose or a pot of gold. Maybe even a genie and a lamp. But that would be just my luck to waste one of my three wishes on six deck screws.

I have many of my Dad’s handtools and shovels, rakes etc., which I will pass on to my son and daughter someday. I don’t know who will get the screwnail jar.

Maybe they’ll have to flip a coin from my coin jar which, alas, is always running on empty.

When Thunderbird Was All Car

I was waiting for my car at a muffler shop in Stratford on Saturday when I spied this magnificent 1966 Thunderbird. The owner Rick, shown here in one of the photos, gave me permission to photograph his prize and he told me the background. He had been searching for such a car and found it in Pennsylvania. It was not in the best of shape when he got it and it has taken him and his daughter years to restore it. The work is not yet done, but they have done most of it themselves including installing a completely rebuilt engine. Rick recently took his car to a Thunderbird show where a journalist was so impressed he has featured the car in an upcoming Thunderbird magazine. I wish I could remember more of the details Rick gave me but he did say that this was the last year the car had this sort of design. Starting with the next model year, it was more rounded and lost many of its distinctive features. JH

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I Spy With My Little Eye …

By Jim Hagarty
2017

The other day, I was in a big mall parking lot, when I spotted a brown car. Not just any brown car, but the brown car I have been waiting all summer to take a photo of. For some time, I have wanted to write a little story about how you don’t see brown cars any more. As soon as I came up with that idea, I saw brown cars everywhere, of course. But not the quality of brown I was seeking.

My theory about the scarcity of brown cars goes back to an article I read years ago which anaylzed car accidents by the colour of the vehicle. Yes, someone had done a study which showed certain colours of cars are more apt to be in accidents because other drivers can’t see them well enough on the roads. Brown was a big offender. It blends too well into the surrounding scenery. Same for certain shades of grey.

So I was preparing to write this very important treatise all summer but needed a photo of the right colour of brown to go with it. And there it was. All I had to do is pull out my smartphone and snap some pics.

But just as I was about to do that, way on the other side of the parking lot, a woman carrying several shopping bags emerged from a big box store. And she was sort of heading in my direction but I knew it would not be possible that she would be the owner of the brown car. There were, that day, 1,002 cars parked in that lot. She had 1,001 other cars to choose from. Still she kept heading my way.

Now this only mattered because I was shy to be taking photos of the brown car if the owner was anywhere about. I had a feeling said owner might find it sort of strange that a stranger was photographing his or her car, emphasis on the her.

So, you know the rest of this story. There were hardly any other people in the parking lot. They were all inside the big box stores scooping up bargains. And still this woman was heading towards me like some sort of laser-guided missile. And yes, she went to the brown car, loaded up her bags and drove away. I hope she made it home without getting into an accident.

So, please forgive me, but I am unable to complete my story at this time. I climbed back into my non-brown car and drove away.

Poor Freddie the Worm

By Jim Hagarty
Renowned Terrible Limericker

There once was a worm named Fred
Who got mad when I stepped on his head.
Fred started moanin’
“Hey, watch where you’re goin’.”
I’ll never forget what he said.

What a Chevy Pickup Looked Like in 1937

In my daily travels up and down the streets of my small city of Stratford, Ontario, in Canada, I sometimes see a wonderful classic car or truck go by, sometimes in the opposite direction. So I turn around at the first opportunity and give chase. Sometimes I catch up with the beauty and sometimes they get away. Yesterday, I struck it rich and when the owner of the 1937 Chevy pickup got out of his truck to get his mail, I asked him if I could photograph his vehicle. He was very co-operative and told me a few details about it. He had been searching for this very truck for a while when he found it in California where it had been in the same family since 1941. It is in mint condition and the owner explained it had an option package when new that included two windshield wipers (as opposed to only one on the driver’s side), two side mirrors and a radio. The windshield also slides open and locks to provide some natural air conditioning. I prefer classic cars that are true to the original in every way, including the paint job. If I see a truck such as this that has been “hotrodded”, with big fat tires and lowered suspension among other tricks, I don’t even give it a second look. – JH

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Poppin’ a Top

By Jim Hagarty
2012

I am just now drinking a bottle of lime pop. Tastes OK. I haven’t had one in many years.

I wonder how much lime is in it. The ingredients are listed according to the amount with the biggest amounts at the start, dwindling down to the smaller ones. No surprise, carbonated water forms the biggest part of this drink. Second, of course, is sugar/glucose-fructose. Third is citric acid. “Citric” might be lime, but I don’t know. Then comes “natural flavour.” I wonder what that is. Then modified corn starch. Sounds reasonable. After that, sodium benzoate. I’m guessing salt. Acacia gum? Then we leave the fairway and are into the rough: sucrose acetate isobutyrate, glycerol ester of wood rosin (there’s wood in my drink?), brominated vegetable oil, colour and guar gum. What is ester, what is brominated, what is guar?

Point is, nowhere in the ingredients is the word “lime” listed.

How can you make a lime drink without any actual lime being included?

But what would I know? Somewhere there is a lime pop tycoon tooling around his mansion, probably sucking back a drink of freshly squeezed real lime. Probably wouldn’t drink this pop on the threat of death.

The Conversationalists

By Jim Hagarty
2015

I met Tom about 30 years ago. For the rest of this column, I will refer to him as Tom (because that is his name.) I think at that first meeting, we were sitting in a coffee shop near my place, and he looked over with a big smile and said “Hi.” As it turns out, that is the one and only thing he has ever said to me that I have completely understood.

On that first evening, he talked and I listened and nodded. Every “conversation” we have had since that time, and we’ve had about a dozen of them, went the same way. Tom talked and I nodded. Because he seems to be a genius and I seem to not be a genius, it has been like a dog explaining barking to a cat. But maybe I am a good listener.

Tom knows all about two things very, very well: short wave radio and cars. I know very little about either one. For a long time, I thought a cattle littick converter was an instrument we used on the farm to turn a bull into not a bull. (That was fun.)

So he talked radio and he talked the inner workings of cars and I felt like a Martian trying to understand a St. Patrick’s Day parade. (Or maybe only a Martian could.) I am polite, so I never interrupted him. Also, nothing he has ever said to me interested me enough to want to know more about it so I asked few questions.

But here’s the funny thing.

I didn’t mind listening to Tom. It was almost like watching a nice sunset. You don’t understand it, so you just enjoy it. Maybe I didn’t absolutely love every one of these sessions, to be honest, but there was something about his unrelenting enthusiasm for his two main interests in life that was infectious.

However, I usually walked away from every conversation wondering if, in fact, I am actually a stupid human being. I am not convinced that I am not. Why can’t I get any of this stuff after all these years?

Tom and I haven’t run into each other in almost a decade. Today, I pulled into a parking lot right beside him. I had my window down, he had his down and we faced each other. Tom started talking to me as though we had spent two hours in the coffee shop last night and were just completing a subject we had started. He seemed to think in his mind that he was picking up exactly where we left off talking in our last meeting 10 years ago. And who knows? He is so brilliant, maybe he does remember exactly where we left off. As for me, I can’t remember whether or not I showered this morning.

So, for 15 minutes, Tom told me about cars and short wave radios and I understood exactly as much as I did at our first meeting 30 years ago and at every subsequent meeting. But it’s the darndest thing. When he pulled out of the parking lot, my day seemed a little brighter. I had said four words, he had said 4,000 but I would say I came out ahead. Not any smarter, just somehow a little happier.

I just hope I can remember where we left off when we next talk-listen 10 years from now or so. I am sure that he will and that I won’t. And that it won’t matter.

It won’t take me long to get up to speed because when we are together, I am travelling about two miles an hour. I guess I am kind of like a long-wave radio, if there is such a thing. You know, the kind of station you can hardly hear late at night because it’s being crowded out by all the biggest stations.

An Extra Special Deluxe Car

Today in my travels I came across this 1950 Dodge Special Deluxe in a Stratford park. It appears to be little changed from when it was new, both inside and out. The paint is not perfect and is showing a bit of wear but I prefer that to an old colour repainted in a colour that was not indigenous to the model year. It sported a few extra “deluxe” features, a bit of extra chrome here and there, and special lights front and back.

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