Month: August 2016

By Jim Hagarty
Renowned Terrible Limericker

I once had a little wee flea
Who went everywhere with me.
He was quiet and small
No trouble at all
Till he bit me right on the knee.

By Jim Hagarty

I have a good brain, but to be honest, I am not as quick on my feet as some other people are.

Such as the young man who was found naked and causing a bit of a stir in a carpark in England. Realizing the cops had been called, the fast-thinking guy needed a place to hide the seven grams of cocaine he was carrying. So, being ever resourceful, he tucked away all his goodies under his foreskin. Had I been in this situation, I am not sure this hiding spot would have occurred to me, but now that I know …

After a fight with the police, the man was arrested and taken to hospital. The prosecutor, whose last name is Ballinger, of course, described in court how the drugs slowly emerged from the young man’s genitals after his arrest.

The defence attorney, who last name is, of course, Redhead, tried but failed to keep his client out of jail where he will contemplate the wages of sin for a few weeks.

By Jim Hagarty

I like to read the comments on Internet news sites but I am not always sure how seriously to take them. I like those sites that require commenters to register and use their real names. But anonymous postings don’t bother me if the writer has something to say. However, I could not read the comment submitted by Throbby the Slobber Worm today. I just couldn’t. And I hope, during my remaining days, however few or many they may be, that I never actually have to meet and converse with Throbby the Slobber Worm. Or Mrs. Throbby. Or any of the rest of the Slobber Worms. I really do.

I have enough problems as it is.

By Jim Hagarty
2006

Where, oh where, were all the anti-bullying programs back when I really could have used them?

Blessed (or cursed), I confess, with a mouth that often engaged itself before my brain kicked in, much like a stick-shift car that gets away from its driver, too much of my youth was spent deflecting the attentions of guys who were intent on making some of my time on earth as miserable as possible. They often succeeded.

I went to a one-room schoolhouse for my entire elementary school education and, in fact, had the same teacher from grades one to eight. I liked her a lot and unfortunately for me, she liked me too. While this might seem, on the surface, to give a student an advantage (and it often does), it can also prove to be a handicap on the schoolyard where an entirely different society than the classroom exists and where the social order often gets worked out.

Most humiliating were those times when the public health nurse would show up to administer needles and the whole school would watch attentively while I got mine, knowing I would faint dead away every time. Being carried outside like a sack of potatoes in your teacher’s arms to be revived by fresh air did nothing to cement a boy’s reputation for bravery, though it did have the effect of providing all my fellow students with a bit of cheap excitement.

For some reason, the sight of my beautiful mug had the effect of upsetting one young classmate in particular and for several years (in my memory, at least) I served as his own personal punching bag – and free lunch provider. It wasn’t as though I didn’t fight back but he was built like a mini bulldozer and I like a skinny racing bike with thin tires and the resulting collisions weren’t pretty.

This had the effect of sending me home many days in a mess of anger and tears. My father would respond with, first, an order to quit crying (which, I see now, was somehow connected to the abuse I was enduring at school) and then the advice that if I could somehow learn to ignore the taunts and teasing of other kids, whether at school or at ball games, etc., my tormentors would soon lose interest in me and leave me alone. Unfortunately, I never got to test this theory, though I’m sure it was a good one, because l could never ignore anything.

The other trigger that never failed to prompt attacks, I know now, was the fear that so obviously permeated my being when I was in the presence of anyone stockier, tougher and meaner. Human nature and maybe just nature being what it is, some people will always see fear as an invitation to impose a bit of cruelty. But what could possibly equip a naturally nervous kid with the skills to either not be afraid of bullies or to hide it well when in their presence?

My father’s advice was sound. When things got a bit boring, my classmates could always count on a bit of excitement by saying a few nasty words to me and watching me launch like a rocket off a pad. If I could have somehow walked away – even laughed along with them – I’m pretty sure they would have moved onto another show.

Fortunately, as I grew up, the tormenting subsided. If I’m not mistaken, my biggest enemy at the one-room school and I existed in peace the last couple of years there.

But there was another boy in our village who was maybe even worse than my schoolyard torturer. And I had to walk by him to get to the ball diamond to see my older brother’s ball games. It was mostly verbal abuse he threw my way, but I was petrified each time I walked by.

Now this probably won’t win me any friends among the anti-bullying gurus of today, but here’s how that ended up. One night, my tormentor picked the wrong circumstances under which to yell and scream at me. Parked near the entrance to the ball diamond, he let loose with his usual string of invective, but did it within earshot of several of my older cousins, who all came over to see what was happening. I could be humiliated in front of classmates, it seemed, but not in front of cousins.

I jumped on him and flailed away till his crying made me stop. He never bothered me again.

An observation few will want to hear: Bullies don’t exist in a vacuum. Sometimes we have a hand in creating them ourselves by our own fears that are too close to the surface. Maybe a bit of attention should be paid to helping kids overcome those fears, to believe in their innate worth regardless of the assessment of others and how to show others that shoving them around cannot be done without consequences.

I wish I could say that glorious night at the ball diamond was the end of it. But it wasn’t. High school called and the bullies were bigger and tougher. Raised in the country, I had no way to know that the town kids that attended my high school took being mean to whole new levels.

But the biggest bullies I ever met were still to come. The ones dressed in suits and ties and who were co-workers, managers and company presidents, sometimes wielded power I hadn’t yet imagined could exist. When your livelihood, paycheque and career reputation were on the line, having a schoolyard bully steal your lunch every day soon looked like child’s play, which, I guess, it was.

I hope I am not betraying traces of self-pity. I don’t mean to. But by way of clarification, I have a brother who takes no crap from anyone. And perhaps for that reason, in his life, he has been dealt very little crap. His life has not been easy, but fear hasn’t played much of a part of his days.

When he was in his final year of high school, having been a basketball hero, someone stole his valued team jacket. A few years later, he was at a party in university and he met a guy who was wearing his jacket. He went up to the stranger and told him he wanted it back. The thief (or someone who got the jacket from the thief) smiled and said, “Well, I guess you’ll just have to take it back, then, won’t you.”

“Suit yourself,” said my brother.

After a struggle, my brother left the party wearing his long-lost jacket.

Bully for him!

By Jim Hagarty
Renowned Terrible Limericker

There was a young man from Boston
Who had a broken down old Austin.
The car wouldn’t start.
It broke his poor heart.
He sold the darned thing at cost then.

By Jim Hagarty
Here are a few of the photos taken by my friend and fellow blogger Al Bossence taken on Sunday, July 31 near his home at Bayfield, Ontario, Canada. Al’s blog can be found at thebayfieldbunch.com. He has had more than four million views over the past 10 years. He writes every evening about the ins and outs, ups and downs of life, with a special nod to the RV life of which he and his wife Kelly and their pooch Pheebe are big fans.

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By Jim Hagarty
The local plumber’s shop we have used for decades keeps this stylish little Chevy utility truck from 1954 around for sentiment and promotion. Check out the adjustable sun visor. Turner opened up as a plumber in Stratford in 1951, the same year I was born in Stratford. Bit of serendipity: I did a Google search to see if I could find out what this truck would have sold for in 1954 (can’t find it so far), and was directed to a auto valuation service called the Hagerty Valuation Tool. Hmmmm.

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By Jim Hagarty

We have our share of pub problems here in Canada. Underage kids sneaking in and getting loaded. Bar owners serving drinks to people who are already drunk. Fights breaking out left, right and centre.

But generally, our pub issues are with humans.

Not so in England where they are far too casual about things. Sometimes, for example, they will leave their back door open. And problems have a way of wandering in.

This week, a Shetland pony walked through the back door into a pub and, being thirsty, made directly for some stray beer glasses on the tables which he proceeded to empty. The animal’s name is Mocha and he loves him some beer. He is not a stranger. He also likes apple cider.

The pub owner knows his freeloader well.

“He is not a big drinker, but he does walk around like he’s a bit drunk. But he is very friendly and likes meeting new things and people,” the owner said. He managed to coax Mocha out of the pub using traditional Shetland pony lures like carrots, potato chips and deep-friend pork rinds.

But the other pub patrons and the journalist who wrote the story about Mocha have no heart.

The writer, for example, declared that Mocha better pony up for those drinks. He also actually wrote that he was horsing around too much. And he had the nerve to describe the whole affair as an “unsaddling” incident.

The patrons weren’t much better.

“Perhaps it was only looking for a little ‘horse-pitality’”, they suggested.

“I think it has a sore throat,” said one barfly. “It’s a little hoarse.”

His latest pub crawl was Mocha’s second.

Internet video, documentary and book tour just have to be on their way.

By Jim Hagarty

My wife has this strange way of doing business. Rather than hopping in the car and rushing off to a store to see if they have something she needs, she phones first. Sometimes, she even phones two or three stores and does some price comparisons.

It’s embarrassing.

Worse, it doesn’t make any sense. The proper way is to drive to Store A and wander up and down the aisles, hoping to find the item yourself. When a staff member approaches you to see if you need help, which you obviously do, you reply, “No thanks. Just lookin’.” The minutes tick by and finally, there it is. Eureka! It’s even on sale, but it nags at you. Is it on for less at any of the other stores? Hop in the car and drive around to see.

Store B has it, but it costs more and Store C doesn’t have it, but could order it. All this extra investigating has taken an hour, because you get distracted looking at a lot of stuff you don’t need. During that time, the two items Store A had in stock are now gone, having been on sale. Back you go to Store B to buy what you could have had for a few dollars less an hour before. Gas bills, aggravation have added to the cost.

It doesn’t help to go home to see your wife sitting on the porch with a tea, reading a novel. She even buys stuff over the phone. And the Internet. Bizarre.

Ten years ago, one of the two springs holding up the garage door on our then 40-year-old house broke. Went off like a rocket when it did. Had I been in the garage at the time, l might be telegraphing this column to you from Heaven. The spring was rusty and 40 years old (as I was getting to be myself, at the time).

It was obvious to me that that particular spring, which could obviously not be fixed, was not being manufactured any more. So, for the past 10 years I have had to use Herculean strength to open the door, held up all that time by only one spring. When it closed, it did so with an ominous, blood-curdling bang.

This summer, we were visiting relatives when l watched their 11-year-old son open their old garage door with one hand. “Gee, I wish we could do that,” I exclaimed, and explained my problem to his father, a department store manager.

“Oh, you can still buy those springs,” he said, and told me where to get them. Had he told me where I could pitch a pick axe and strike a motherlode of gold, I could not have been more overcome.

So, I went to the store, and there they were. I bought two of them. New, nicely painted. Fantastic. I rushed them home and ran to the garage to install both of them, reasoning that if the first one blew apart 10 years ago, the second one might go at any moment and crack me in the bean.

Alas, when I went to replace the one that had already burst, it was to find that a small piece onto which the spring is to be fastened, was also gone. Back to the store. I tried to explain what I needed to the three employees who wanted so badly to help but it was like I was asking directions on a street corner in Madrid. I got desperate. Like one of those distraught pet owners searching far and wide for Fluffy, I took a picture of the part I was missing and began circulating it to garage door stores, knowing full well that I could not get lucky twice. They might still make springs for my now-50-year-old door, but I just knew you couldn’t still get the little gizmo I needed.

At my second stop, the store owner took one look at my picture of Fluffy, er, the gizmo, and said, “Hang on.” He went back in his shop and I heard a lot of banging. Soon, he reappeared with the part. My jaw dropped. “How much?” I asked him, resisting the urge to hug him tightly. “Your lucky day,” he said. “Just take it.”

Three thousand, 600 and 50 days after my garage door broke, I was back in business. Saturday, I spent most of the afternoon opening and closing the door. With one finger. Others were off whooping it up at a rock concert (which I could easily hear in my garage). I was playing with my door. And having a better time than they were.

The only cloud is knowing that the same day the spring broke in 1996, my wife would have phoned around, found the springs, phoned around and found the gizmo, and had it all up and going the next day. And sat on the porch to read her novel.

However, she would never have known the joy only 10 years of waiting can deliver.

I feel sorry for her.