Category: Uncategorized

By Jim Hagarty
2006

I never thought this would happen, I guess, but as I grow older, though I try to keep up, I’m feeling more and more like a stranger in a world that’s subtly changing before my eyes. Maybe this is a natural preparation for the day when I won’t be part of the world at all.

Nothing brings this home to me more than the modern bicycle, and even more powerfully, the modern bicyclist, about whom I have commented before. I am at a loss to know why today’s bicycle manufacturers go to the trouble and expense of including handlebars on their vehicles as they seem about as necessary these days as you know what on a bull. Male riders, especially, like to trundle on down the sidewalks of our fair city, with their hands on their hips or, on colder days, in their pockets. I guess I can see why they would want to do this beyond the looking cool factor but I just don’t understand how they do it.

In my day, it seems to me it practically took a circus acrobat to ride “look ma, no hands!” on an ordinary bicycle. I haven’t done a lot of research on this, or even any, but I’m guessing it was harder to ride a bike with your hands in your pockets 50 years ago because the country roads where I lived were all gravel. Hit a stone the wrong way and you’d be doing a face plant at 20 miles an hour.

I also wonder whether or not the big, fat, wide wheels and tires on a lot of bikes today are better at keeping them upright with no guidance on their handlebars than the rounded tires on our bikes did when I was a kid.

I was 31 when I got my first new bike. I bought it at a place called the Bicycle Hospedal, appropriately named because the thing was so anorexic it looked as though it could have benefitted from some intravenous feeding. It was a “racing bike” and it cost $212. (I forget dates, names, appointments, but I never forget what “major” purchases cost me).

I had to contort myself into a pretzel to ride the blasted thing as the turned-down handlebars were located somewhere just above the front axle. Pretty much the only thing I could see while riding it was the pavement, though if I cranked my neck back at an almost inhuman angle, I might be able to see the bumpers of the cars ahead of me or even, sometimes, the horizon.

The tires on my skinny, little bike weren’t much more than glorified rubber bands with a breath of air pumped in them and every small bump in the road reverberated up into my spine like an electric shock treatment administered from the wrong end of the body. And, of course, sitting on the seat of this thing was like planting my tender rear on a hard, tiny door knob and riding that down the bumpy thoroughfares.

So, you can see why I just can’t understand how all these no-hands riders are doing it, because I sure couldn’t, and can’t.

Perhaps you are getting the picture that I didn’t like my new bike very well, and you’d be right. Years later, after tripping over it in the shed 600 times, I decided to cut my losses, took it to an auction barn and came home with a tidy $7 in my pocket. This year, I replaced it with a used “touring” bike, the type of velocipede (as a humour writer I know likes to call it) I should have been on in the first place.

All of this blather is a prelude to what I am now going to share. The other day I saw a teenager riding his bike down the street with, of course, no part of his anatomy touching his handlebars. Nothing new. What was new, for me, in any case, was the fact that he was playing some sort of hand-held game player – whether Game Boy, PSP or whatever, I could not tell as he rode along the sidewalk on the busiest street in town.

This bizarre display also goes to another of my pet peeves: multitasking. What’s next? Watching TV while biking down the street, doing your homework on a laptop, emailing Mom, photographing the people being passed, including the grumpy, old guy scratching his head at a sight he thought he’d never see?

By Jim Hagarty
2014

I’ve lost interest in hockey and probably couldn’t even make the cut in the beer belly league now. Same with baseball. Never was big on soccer, tennis, bowling.

But there is one sport I am thinking of taking up and it’s one I think I might even be good at. That is the sport of shin-kicking and over the weekend, a Vancouver man was crowned world champion at the Cotswold Olimpicks in Chipping Camden, England. I’ve always been good at kicking and am usually mad enough to want to hurt somebody’s shins. And here’s the clincher: I have been to Chipping Camden. If that isn’t a sign for me to take up this cool activity, I don’t know what is.

The sport is 400 years old. It involves kicking your opponent’s shins as you try to throw him to the ground. That must hurt, you say? Maybe, but participants do get to shove hay down the legs of their pants for protection. Growing up on the farm, it seemed at haying time I always had hay in my pants. The sport was waiting for me.

I’m a bit disappointed the shin-kickers have gone soft over the past 200 years though. They used to cap the toes of their boots with metal but that is against the rules now. Today’s shin-kickers might be wimps but with some practice, I think I could take ’em.

Yes, wind me up and I would gladly kick the shin out of all of them.

By Jim Hagarty
2014

I hadn’t seen any ghosts lately so I was probably due. One day last week I was working in my front yard when I heard someone call my name. I turned towards the street, and standing on the sidewalk there was a neighbour with her beautiful black lab by her side. What threw my sense of sight into shock was the fact that her dog died a year ago and yet, there stood the two of them, just like old times.

Her dog Summer was a beautiful animal, both in body and soul. Till the day she died, she would always bring her cancer-filled body over to see me when she was out for a walk. And now, here she was again. Not only was I seeing her for the first time since she died, I hadn’t seen my neighbour out and about either, except on occasion as she drove by in her car.

I wandered over to her and her dark apparition and leaned down to pet the beautiful animal’s big head with the same gorgeous eyes that had greeted me so often. I awaited some sort of explanation.

“This is Wynter,” said my neighbour. “She is seven months old.” Back in my neighbour’s eyes was the same pride and happiness she always had with Summer by her side. After we visited for awhile and Wynter and I became fast friends, I said to her as she walked away, “I hope you’ll never need an Autymn or a Spryng.” She laughed and wandered down the street, faithful dog by her side.

A few days later, she came by again and wondered if Wynter could meet our dog Toby as Toby and Summer had always been best friends. I took Toby out and the cranky little poodle yelled at Wynter for awhile just to establish who was boss, then sniffed her a bit and lay down on the grass beside her.

All is right with the world.

By Jim Hagarty
2015
Some people say a wash bucket on wheels cannot bring a man happiness. I am here to testify that a wash bucket may be about the one single item in life that can bring a man unfettered joy. Especially since that bucket was once lost and then, through a series of serendipitous and glorious occurrences, was found. It was the final item on my bucket list. I have nothing left to accomplish. And to those who might believe it is ridiculous to include a wash bucket on your bucket list, I pose this question: Then why is it called a Bucket List? All six items on my list involve a bucket. And when I finish with number six, which I plan to put off a while, I intend to kick the darn bucket.

By Jim Hagarty
1987
A rural plain-spoken, no-nonsense businessman I knew never liked receptionists to ask who was calling when he telephoned another company. He figured the person he wanted to speak to might be conveniently out if he or she knew it was him on the other end of the line. So, to the question, “May I ask who’s calling?”, he used to always answer, “King Farouk.” He claimed his calls were always put through.

By Jim Hagarty
1987

I examined my blue jeans one day and realized they looked like I’d rolled down the side of a mountain in them. In other words, just the way I like them.

But I had started to recognize those “who let him in here?” looks wherever I went and realized the time had come and probably already passed for me to buy a new pair.

So I stopped for what I expected would be a quick trip to the blue jeans store.

Racks upon racks of blue jeans spread out before me as I entered the place so I went to Row A and figured I’d just flip through them until I came to the pair I wanted. I was about four hangers away from reaching them when a young man with a measuring tape around his neck stepped in between me and the jeans I intended to buy.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” he asked politely.

“Ah, yes,” I replied. “I’d like to buy a pair of blue jeans. That pair right …” but he cut me off as I peeked around him and pointed to the ones I wanted which were clearly in sight. They were dark blue and had four pockets, a fly and belt loops. Just the ticket.

“What kind of blue jeans were you thinking about?” the young salesman asked me nicely.

“Well, I kind of thought,” I stammered, “that pair over …” but he interjected again before I could direct him to the jeans I knew I wanted.

“What colour did you have in mind?” he asked me.

“What colour of blue jeans?” I replied, in mild astonishment. “Would blue be an outrageous choice?”

“No, of course not,” the young man laughed. “It’s just that we have other colours – black, grey, brown, beige.”

“Well,” I answered. “Shouldn’t brown blue jeans be called brown jeans?”

“I suppose so,” the clothier said. “So, you’d like blue, blue jeans, then?”

“Yes,” I said. “If you’d just hand me that …”

“Stonewashed or acidwashed?” he enquired.

“What?” I asked, my mouth dropping open.

“Stonewashed jeans are prewashed and preshrunk and are faded a light blue. Acidwashed jeans are a speckled blue with varying shades of blue all in the same fabric.”

“I had no idea,” I mumbled. “Washing clothes in acid …”

“And if you’d like the acidwashed jeans, would you prefer the plain ones or the ones with the brown leather patch on the back pocket?” he asked.

“Patch on the pocket …?”

“Then there are these,” the young man said as he flipped through a rack of semi-faded jeans.

“They’re nice,” I told him.

“Would you like the purple tab jeans or the green tab ones?” the man asked.

“What’s the difference?” I enquired.

“About 15 dollars,” he answered.

“Maybe green tab, I guess,” I whispered.

“Straight leg or superslim?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “My legs are fairly straight …”

“There’s also boot cut,” he continued.

“For rubber boots?” I wondered.

“Have you thought about a pair of painter pants?” he asked.

“Well, actually, I was thinking of wearing them for good,” I said.

“No, you misunderstand,” he said, patiently. “These are good pants. They have a white strap sewn to one leg.”

“Well, I’ll be,” I said.

Before we were through, I’d tried on baggy jeans that made me look like Chuckles the Clown and a pair that fit tighter than my long underwear as well as several that looked worse than the old pair I’d worn into the store.

As I left the place, carrying an armload of four new pair of jeans, none of them like the pair I’d gone in to buy, the salesman asked in passing if I’d like to look at blue jean jackets. I glanced behind me at several racks of blue denim coats – some thin, some with thick white lining, some long and some short with furry collars. Some with zippers up the front and some with buttons. Some had snaps and domes. Some speckled. Some faded.

“Not today,” I yelled over my shoulder, and I hurried on out of the store.

“Do you have any denim shirts?” he called after me. “We have two colours.”

I let on I never heard and just kept on running. I found that’s the only way to stay one step ahead of the latest styles.

By Jim Hagarty
2015

When you are young and just starting off in life, it is easy to lose your way. There are so many career choices today it is mind-boggling. How does anyone ever choose successfully?

I think the trick is to not find your career but to let your career find you. Strangely enough, that works more often than not. And at the other end of the scale, when you’re retired and reflecting on things, it’s tempting to look back and wonder if you took the right path.

In my case, I became a journalist, a newspaperman to be exact, or, as others have described a person in my line of work, an “ink-stained wretch.” I didn’t think my life was wasted but lately I have realized I threw away my best years.

I wish, when I was starting out, I had gone to my parents and said, “I want to become a collaboration specialist.” I am sure my Dad would have said, “That’s great, you can start by collaborating the cattle from the back 40 to the barn.” But whether there would have been joy or disappointment in the house following the announcement of my decision, I cannot say.

I know everyone is aware of what a collaboration specialist does, but I will go over it again in case you have forgotten. A collaboration specialist helps companies run better meetings. In 1969, if I had known this was a career option, I would have grabbed onto it. What a fantastic path to take. To help companies bore and annoy their poor employees even just a little bit less with every meeting they are forced to attend would have been so fantastic.

And some day, in the old folk’s home, as I sit around with the guys comparing our careers, the old novelist, TV producer, grocery store owner, law professor and microbiologist, will all look at me and wonder when I tell them that I spent my life as a collaboration specialist. I hope they are not filled with envy as that is an emotion that can shorten your life. However, company meetings can bring a certain interminability to life that can be achieved in no other way that I know of.

This column is adjourned.

Minutes will be distributed at a later date.

By Jim Hagarty
2005

I was half asleep, half awake and something suddenly began happening to my body that had never happened before. The big toe on my right foot began twisting uncontrollably and sharply to the left, then back again, then to the left again. This kept up for some time and it was an awful feeling in more ways than one.

My father suffered the ravages of Parkinson’s disease, a mysterious malady that strikes a person’s brain and muscles and eventually causes its victims difficulties in almost every area of their day-to-day lives. Some people move quickly to a stage where they are incapable of even dressing themselves and become dependent on a wheelchair. Facial muscles become rigid. Eyes can take on a tell-tale stare and sufferers are almost guaranteed to experience a depression that accompanies the sickness. They are not depressed because they are unhappy about being sick. They are depressed because of chemical imbalance in their brain.

But the most visible symptom of Parkinson’s disease is the trembling limbs: Hands, arms, legs, feet and even a person’s head develop tremors that at times are mild and at other times, during periods of increased stress, for example, very pronounced.

My father was one of the lucky ones with this disease. Though he shook and experienced all the other symptoms, he kept working as long as he could on the farm and needed a wheelchair in only the last few weeks of his life. I don’t remember him complaining much, but he occasionally did describe for his family what he was experiencing, as a way, I suppose, to help us understand.

When Dad was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, the doctor advised him to retire immediately and sell his farm. He didn’t do that and though this is only my uneducated opinion, I think the challenge and work of the farm kept his symptoms at bay longer than might have otherwise been the case.

So, lying in bed with my toe twisting and twisting as I faded in and out of dreamland, I immediately jumped to some disturbing conclusions. Although Parkinson’s is not supposed to be a hereditary affliction, there seem to be no “nevers” in the medical world. I’ve always sort of wondered if this might be my fate.
How long will I be able to continue typing, the lifeline of my career? Maybe I could use voice-recognition software to write my stories and do my editing.

How will I tell my family the bad news, as I remember my father telling his?

How will I cope with all the terrible symptoms of Parkinson’s?

Disturbing thoughts, indeed, in the middle of the night, no matter whether they were coming from the dreamworld or the real one. My big toe kept lurching, lurching to the left. Everyone has the odd involuntary muscle spasm but this was really different. Not only did it twist, but a slight pain shot through it too.

It was time, I thought, to face the music and have a look at it.
I raised my head from my pillow and looked down toward the end of the bed. There, having maybe the best time in his life so far, was my young cat Luigi who was gnawing away at my toe like he was chewing on a chicken bone.

Two things were learned that night.

I learned I didn’t have Parkinson’s.

And Luigi learned how to fly.