Author: Jim Hagarty

My wife and I are different in many ways. She loves doing puzzles, I’d rather sit naked in a pot of honey and then go find a bears’ den to moon than do a puzzle. I don’t see the point of sitting for hours flipping over little pieces of cardboard to try to reassemble what was a perfectly good picture till some demented soul with a bunch of goofy cookie cutters blew the whole thing apart.

The same brain that feels satisfaction piecing together a cruelly dismembered depiction of some sort or other also enjoys endless knitting sessions or hours of playing solitaire on a computer. If I ever play solitaire on our computer I sincerely hope the police will come and arrest me and put me to work breaking rocks in a remote rock pile in Siberia.

My point is, how can anyone find joy in sitting down at a table covered by 2,000 randomly shaped puzzle pieces with an eye to reconstructing something that should have been left alone all along?

So when I hear the telltale flip of the puzzle pieces on the table, I go out to my garage and tinker. The thing I love to do most, and it is a very engaging task, is to sort through the chaos out there and try to bring some order.

For example, I was recently given several cardboard boxes and mutliple plastic bags all full of screwnails. Mixed in among the drywall screws, decks screws, fence screws, metal screws, and concrete screws, are assorted nuts and washers. Also, there are dozens of common nails, spikes, ardocs, concrete nails and finishing nails. Also sharing containers with all these screwnails and old-fashioned nails, are various sizes of plastic drywall plugs, plastic electrical wire connectors and hooks of every description.

I love to dump the containers of goodies out on my workbench and I can spend hours isolating items according to type and size and dropping them into empty peanut butter jars I have collected. When I accumulate new jars, I like to dump all the full ones on the table again and sort them into finer and more specific categories.

I have enough of this inventory to build a space shuttle or at least a really fancy sandbox for kids. But I will never use 95 per cent of all the material I love to sort and I know that going in. Very little is actually accomplished, therefore, by all this activity, but my mind is strangely calm and satisfied at the conclusion of each session.

But you wouldn’t see me put together a puzzle if the executioner said he wouldn’t give the riflemen the signal if I could complete, in three hours, a 200-piece puzzle showing a horse standing in a field. I would look him straight in the eye and yell, defiantly, “FIRE!!!!”

Yes, my wife and I are so different. It’s a wonder we’re still together after all this time.

©2015 Jim Hagarty

What we don’t have enough of in this world are people who hit you when they’re talking to you. Man I just love that. To keep your attention, I guess, the uninvited guest in your personal space keeps tapping you on the leg, the knee, the forearm, the elbow – any dangly part that can be reached – as they relate their fascinating tales, which are whispered conspiratorially as though the code to the U.S. nuclear warheads supply was being revealed.

And gosh darn it (sorry for the foul language), their stories do compel. In their presence, I am almost tempted to tell them that with narratives as captivating as they regularly roll out, there is no need for them to assault the people around them to get them to listen. But then, if I provided talker-hitters with that opinion, they might stop with the tapping and my gosh (there I go again), I love it. Maybe I even need it.

I sat beside such a touch-feely raconteur at an event the other day and I found myself fighting the urge to place body parts within his reach that he hadn’t yet tapped. It was a thrill listening to his tales and a cheap thrill feeling his hand all over my body. Well, not ALL over. That’s my secret goal for the next time we sit side by side. Which can’t come soon enough.

And yes, I promise to come out with my hands up, officer.

©2015 Jim Hagarty

There is a big pothole at the end of our street. I have been struggling to deliver the best description I can of this pavement monster.

I am not sure how long it’s been there but there are stories in my neighbourhood about how buggy drivers always took care to steer their carriages around the hole lest their horses stumble in and break a leg.

In fact, while it has been impossible for me to get an exact count of all my neighbours, it seems I haven’t seen some of them since Spring came around. I am not saying any of them fell into the hole, but I am at a loss as to how to explain what seems to be a depopulation of some of the 44 houses on my block.

I guess, though I was putting this off, that you will want to know exactly how big this pothole is. I toyed with the idea of telling you it could swallow an elephant, were one to happen by, but I knew you’d think I was exaggerating and that won’t do. Real humour is based on truth, and so, I have to be realistic.

The pothole at the end of my street could swallow a baby elephant and to be more precise, a newborn baby elephant. There very well could be one in there right now but I am afraid to go look. If I saw one down there I would probably try to save it and would end up in the hole too.

The reason I refer to our pothole as a monster, aside from its size, is this. It is more than a hole. It’s a trap. It fills up with water and fools drivers and pedestrians into thinking it is just a rather large puddle.

We don’t get many visitors these days but we always caution the people who do drop by to take another route to get off our street.

Go to the other end, we say, and don’t be charmed by the cute baby elephants milling about at the other.

©2022 Jim Hagarty

This stinks!

A government worker in Washington was reprimanded in a four-page letter because of his bad habit of passing gas all day long in the office. His fellow workers were not amused and they complained to management.

Unlike the guy a while back who turned around and farted in the direction of an arresting officer – that guy was charged for that delightful little action – the office worker didn’t intentionally stink up the joint. He has a medical condition. But that didn’t make the odor any less offensive and so he was in big doodoo, so to speak.

But here’s what gets me. A tight-assed (too bad the office worker wasn’t the same) busybody manager actually went around counting and documenting his employee’s farts. In the four-page letter the manager wrote, a chart accompanied the description of the instances of gas passing, a Fart Chart, if you will. The poor guy blew it out his shorts 60 times over a few months, including nine times on one sad day in September. So, he was reprimanded for creating a hostile work environment.

Okay, a problem this is, I get that. But see this from another angle. There is a human being in this world who, in part, earns his paycheque by going around tabulating farts. When this manager was a kid, he told the teacher on everybody, didn’t he? And now he counts farts for a living.

We all have our mission. God put us here for a reason. Our job is to discover that vocation and follow it. This manager discovered he had a talent for sniffing out farts and he has apparently made it his goal to wipe out (?) foul-smelling rear ends wherever they may be encountered. I’m going to go out on a limb here and suggest that the manager is a secret farter himself..

When the manager’s boss found out about the reprimand he had given out, it was retracted, proof I think, that the manager needs to learn how to apply the Principle of Benign Neglect and let his staff sort out their problems on their own.

Ya, the windy guy needs to somehow get himself under control but I’d rather spend a day with him than an hour with the guy who counts his farts. Now that guy is the real asshole!

©2016 Jim Hagarty

We were in tune from the start and it was as close to instant love as can be had in this world. We went everywhere together and the relationship always made me smile and feel light in my heart – and on my feet. Wherever we were, whatever the time, I always wanted to move, to shake, to dance, so full of joy was I. Time and distance meant nothing. Middle of the night, middle of the day, there was always a buzz, a pulse, a beat that is hard to define.

But that is all in the past now. Familiarity, I am afraid to say, has bred contempt. Where there had once been a never-ending stream of wonderful surprise, now there is only sameness, predictability, and boredom. Small mannerisms – the voice, the laugh, the chuckle – have turned from endearing to irritating. There is a shallowness that was there all along that I had never really seen, but once I caught a glimpse of it, I now cannot unsee it. There is little to nothing left for me here. It is time to move on.

I need a new radio station.

©2012 Jim Hagarty

I can see things.

Things that other people can’t see.

Down through the ages there have been people like me. Sometimes we’ve been scorned, sometimes celebrated. But rarely ignored.

I don’t know if what I have is a talent, but I do know not everyone has it, and that makes me a little lonely at times, knowing I am different.

Friday night, for example, I was out in my backyard when I saw an animal I had never seen before. It was very low to the ground and had a white, pointy nose. It was working away snorting up birdseed I had sprinkled on the ground. It didn’t see me, whatever it was, but I kept one hand on the garage doorknob in case it suddenly made a murderous dash for me and I had to quickly escape.

I watched this little creature for five minutes or so and it seemed oblivious to everything around it. It sure was having a good feed.

I texted my son with the message that I thought there was a possum in the backyard, but who knows what it was? It didn’t seem to be a skunk as there were no stripes and great bushy tail.

My son came out and had a look, and because he is like my father, a lifelong farmer, he is brave as a pirate and he walked right over to the thing. Then he drew back his foot to kick it.

“No,” I thought. “I don’t want to see it hurt.”

But it was too late. He kicked that big old dead maple leaf as hard as a leaf has ever been kicked.

There are two more things I think my son thinks I should see as this was not the first time something like this has happened. In fact, it occurs way too often.

I think he thinks I should see an eye doctor and a doctor doctor.

I’ll have to see about that.

©2021 Jim Hagarty

Jeff Bezos called in his chief accountant one day recently on what he said was an important issue.

“It looks like we’re going to have a problem again with that guy from Canada,” said the Amazon boss to his underling. “That guy, Hagarty, I believe his name is.”

“Nooooooo!!!!!”, yelled back the accountant in dismay. “Not that guy. Please.”

“That’s the one,” said Bezos. “What a pain in the behind that guy is. We can’t go through anything with him again, after our last encounter.”

“What is it this time?” asked Mr. Figuresadder, the accountant.

“Same as last time,” sighed the multi trillionaire behind the desk. “He says he has been overcharged again.”

“Omigosh,” exclaimed Figuresadder. “Why does this keep happening? Especially with this jerk.”

“Don’t know,” said Bezos. “But let’s not make a big thing of it this time. Hagarty seems to thrive on conflict.”

“What should we do?” asked the accountant.

“Just pay him out,” ordered Bezos. “Cut him off at the knees. We can afford the hit.”

So, with a heavy heart, Mr. Figuresadder went back to his office and spent the next hour making the arrangements.

And there it was. On Hagarty’s next credit card statement. On Dec. 7, 2023, Amazon Marketplace Canada settled the issue with Hagarty before the cantankerous Canuck could get a head of steam on.

On that day, Hagarty’s credit card statement showed a credit from Amazon of 0.01.

Hagarty smiled contentedly to himself as he read the statement, packed the family in the car and took them out for supper. That’s how it’s done when the little guy stands up to the big guy. When the news got out, Hagarty was placed in the running for his country’s coveted Citizen of the Year award.

But even if he doesn’t win that honour, his satisfied smile these days says it all.

In fact, it’s worth every penny (in U.S. funds).

©2024 Jim Hagarty

I stepped out into my backyard through our garage door very late one night last week, when winter still had us in its grip. There I saw three big male wild rabbits, feasting on the seed I had scattered earlier below our platform bird feeder (an old sheet of plywood on an even older steel post). These three guys aren’t friendly and I was surprised they didn’t bolt when they saw me. But hunger must have temporarily dulled their caution and they hung in there. I was careful not to make any sudden moves.

Missing from the gang was My Bunny, the sweet little female who is about half the size of the Three Amigos and who behaves as though I am her best pal. In fact, one of the Hardboiled Hares might have been the only one she was able to keep alive during her first season as a mother last summer.

As I was watching the Ravenous Gang of Three make short work of the feed I had put out, I suddenly spied My Bunny out of the corner of my eye. She had ripped around the corner of the shed and hopped right up to me. I thought I understood what was going on. She was too timid to approach the Backyard Bullies but was probably as hungry as they were on this cold night. This was not the first time she had come to me for help.

I knew what I had to do. I talked to her calmly in a sing-songy voice and slipped back into the garage to fetch her some grain. I reappeared and sprinkled a moderate amount on the ground a few feet from me. I knew the Nervous Nellies under the birdfeeder would never make a dash for what I had left my fuzzy little pal, at least not while I was standing there. And even My Bunny, though she had asked for something to eat, stood back a piece after I had dumped her food on the ground. I had to sweet talk the girl into hopping up near me and chowing down. Finally, she gave in and raced up to within a few feet of me and started filling her belly.

Now I knew I was stuck. As cold as it was out and me with no coat, cap or gloves on, I had no choice but to provide security while Bunny got busy gobbling. Fortunately, she filled up fairly quickly and took off again behind the shed.

It is one thing to be seen by a wee rabbit as a reliable source of food, but another to be hired on as a bodyguard.

Or as her bunnyguard, which maybe suits a bit better.

©2023 jim Hagarty

To the person in my county of Canada who just this week won $50 million in a lottery, I just want you to know how happy I am for you. You might not know this, but I have always been an avid supporter of you, in all that you do and all that you are. You truly are, and I am not shy about saying this, an amazing human being and the world is better for having you in it.

I know you must be so excited thinking about your big prize and how you will ever spend it. I would be the same if I were in your shoes. I am also sure that you will have friends, family, neighbours and even total strangers approaching you with their hands out. I would never do that. I have too much respect for you. However, I do support several charities and if you ever felt inclined to donate to any of them, I would be forever grateful.

I am a charter member of Landlords Without Boarders, a very worthwhile organization, as well as the Society for the Rehabilitation and Socialization of Hermits. I also belong to the Organization for the Preservation of Peanut Butter and another group dedicated to teaching retirees how to get out of bed before noon. It is a problem long overlooked.

So, if you find the time, please feel free to forward some funds towards these worthy causes and I will ensure that money gets into the right hands. You will be making a lot of people happy by your generosity.

Your Loyal Friend,

Jim

P.S. I want you to know I feel badly for all the years I made fun of and was critical of people who buy lottery tickets. I almost assaulted one in a store recently when I stood in line behind him as he took ten minutes to decide on which specific tickets to buy. I am regretful about that and now have nothing but the utmost respect for those people, such as yourself, who are willing to take a chance, sometimes day after day. Thank you for your patience.

©2021 Jim Hagarty

In the days before metric and when cars in North America were the size of boats and had engines that could power a train, I experienced the scariest moment of my life. Wedged in the back seat of a car with five other guys, I started freaking out as the driver let things rip on the Canadian highway that led to my village.

I don’t know why I was in the car – I knew the guys but they weren’t my friends. Maybe I had hitched a ride home from school. As the car hurtled faster and faster down the highway, I remember seeing the needle on the speedometer inching towards and finally touching the 120 miles per hour mark on a road where the maximum allowed speed was 60.

I used to think I asked to be let out of the car and maybe I did but now I think it was probably more the case that they dropped me off in my village and I walked the two miles east to our farm.

Many years later, I discovered that speed is a relative thing as my wife and I drove our little rental Fiat along the Autobahn in Germany which, if I recall correctly, has no posted speed limits. I kept up with traffic on the four-lane road which meant I ended up travelling the equivalent of 100 mph which didn’t seem that incredibly fast to me. Amazingly though, Mercedes and BMWs were flying by us in the passing lane as though we were standing still. Some of them must have been topping out at 120 mph.

Even at those speeds, apparently, there aren’t a lot of accidents. However, when a pile up does occur, it can involve dozens of vehicles.

©2012 Jim Hagarty