Month: July 2017

By Jim Hagarty
2012

Finally

Life is funny. I’ve played acoustic guitars for 43 years but because I play left handed, I have never played an electric guitar. I’ve never wanted to own one but I at least have always wanted to try playing one.

I told a musician friend of mine this on Tuesday. On Friday, I went to a jam session at a trailer park nearby and and a guitar picker I’d never met before joined the group. He was renting the same trailer my family and I rented for a week two years ago. He is a great guy, an amazing guitarist and, oh yeah, left handed.

He opened a case, brought out a beautiful, left-handed, solid-body electric and placed it right into my hands. I sat down and played two songs on it.

I am on a roll and now I need to start telling people, “You know, I’ve been driving cars for 45 years but I have never OWNED a Corvette.” Then I’ll just sit back and wait for another amazing trick of Fate.

By Jim Hagarty
2014

Here’s another thing that didn’t happen to you this week but did to me.

I was witness to the worst case of lawn rage I’ve ever seen. A guy speeding down my street yesterday went nuts when he saw that the road was blocked for construction but he didn’t let a little thing like a gigantic truck get in his way. Instead, barely even slowing down, he detoured up onto my lawn, drove on it the whole width of our double lot, past two of our maple trees and out the other side to the street again.

Apparently he was on his way to the National Genius Convention in Toronto. The only thing that bothered me was I was supposed to catch a ride with him to the convention but he must have forgot to pick me up. Oh well. I imagine he was one of the guest speakers so he probably had a lot on his very brainy mind.

By Jim Hagarty
2017

I ordered my meal in the restaurant and asked for a Coke. I expected a glass of pop but instead, the waitress delivered my order in an old-fashioned glass Coke bottle, a little skinnier than in the old days, but close enough. OMG, the clouds had parted and Heaven shone down upon me.

I have rattled on and on for decades about how Coke (or any pop) out of a can or plastic bottle tastes nothing like the Coke of my youth which came only in glass bottles. Now that was when a Coke was a Coke! I couldn’t wait to lift this miracle to my lips and treat my taste buds to something they had been deprived of for so long.

I raised the bottle, and let the first swig trickle down my throat like shallow creek water over rocks after a winter’s thaw. Glug and then a couple of more glugs. Well, half in tears and full of emotion, I am here to report that this beautifully bottled Coke seemed to me to taste no different than the stuff that comes in cans and plastic containers. It was like finding out Paul McCartney really did die some time in the sixties and was replaced by a look-a-like. Or that the moon landing was staged somewhere in Arizona.

How could this possibly be? I am despondent. It is a cruel world. I was raised on the bottle. Now nothing makes sense any more.

In my city, if a tree drops three leaves in the middle of summer when it shouldn’t drop leaves at all, a big truck and boom will be on it like drool on a baby by the next morning and down she goes. In the country, a few miles north of my town, stands this stately old beggar, not much to show for a summer’s growing season and maybe not much at all for the past few summers. And yet there she stands, waiting till the day nature sends some lighting and wind to lay her low. No farmer or municipal team has seen the need to hasten the inevitable. There is a dignity in that old skeleton. No birds’ nests any more, no children climbing to the top. But a life well lived and a monument to the beauty of Creation. Well done, good and faithful servant! May I see you in my travels another time or two. JH

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.

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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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.

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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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.