Lifetime Sentences

By Jim Hagarty
Renowned Terrible Limericker

I once knew a bully named Bob
Who hurt me all day till I’d sob.
I do not know why
That guy made me cry.
Did he think that that was his job?

By Jim Hagarty
1994

To those of you who think that newspapers are only full of bad news, I would direct your attention to the recent article which detailed the efforts by scientists to reduce the methane gas emanating from the millions of cows on the planet.

Yes, you felt despair over war, homelessness, poverty, crime and terrorism but you were only seeing half the picture. Stack up those things against the work being done to lessen the bad air coming out of various openings on cattle and I think you’ll agree the picture doesn’t look so dim.

In a research barn in Ottawa, ran the Canadian Press news report, a cow named Betsy is being feverishly experimented on with the aim of cutting down on her contributions to the greenhouse gases causing environmental damage to our planet. On her left side has been implanted a plastic porthole through which scientists are able to work on her main stomach, a body part that regularly churns out 600 litres of gas a day. By genetically altering the feed she eats, they’re hoping to make her digestive system work better.

The bad news is, it’s going to take at least five more years to get this system working, so the burps and flatulence from the world’s cattle herds will probably have warmed up this planet to an average skin-blistering 45-degrees Celsius by then and none of us will care how smelly the cow’s belly can be.

Of course, as usual, the scientists haven’t bothered to place a quick call to a certain daily newspaper’s rural editor in Stratford, Ontario, who spent his formative years working in large wooden enclosures where dozens of gas-producing cattle were kept and who often wondered about ways of making them less windy (the cows, that is, not the barns.) Many years before scientists started tossing around the idea that diet had something to do with it, the editor in question had already figured that out.

“It’s all that bran,” he realized one day after dumping yet another load of grain in their feeder. With no way to measure exactly, the young farmer nevertheless estimated each cattle beast was chomping down the equivalent of about 60 bran muffins a day not to mention the 25 large cans of corn niblets and, if a forkful of hay can be compared to a salad, about 10 or 12 caesars before sunrise. You eat all that, day and see how many parties you get invited to.

This problem is compounded by the fact that, after the cow has chomped down all this stuff, she then finds a nice quiet place under a tree to sit for the next six hours, regurgitating it all back up from her stomach into her mouth and chewing it all over again.

The editor, who is routinely ignored by the science community, says save the $100 million in tax (or whatever the research is costing), cut back on the muffins to one a day and institute the following menu for all cows everywhere:

Breakfast: cheese pancakes.

Lunch: cheese soufflé.

Supper: macaroni and cheese.

Bedtime snack: biscuits and cheese.

And when the cow flatus dilemma is finally solved, as it surely will be, let us then turn our attention to even bigger problems, like getting birds to stop dropping their droppings and fish to hold their water in the water.

The rural editor, if asked, has ideas for remedying those environmental hazards, too.

By Jim Hagarty
2015

I moved into my house 29 years ago next month. One of my first forays after moving in was to a small variety store on the next street, a short walk away. I met the nice couple who ran the place and since then, we have had many a chat over the counter. Weather, politics, philosophy, music, life – it all got thoroughly discussed and I said many a brilliant thing. I think they learned a lot.

I was single then and eventually I married and kids arrived. When the kids were young, they’d send me home with a free popsicle for them, from time to time. Sometimes I didn’t have enough money for my purchases. They’d wave me off, pay us later, they said. I always tried to remember to do that. Sometimes a dime, sometimes 50 cents.

But something has always been amiss. After almost three decades, I have never known their names. I always hoped that some other customer that was there when I was would address them by their names but it never happened. After 20 years or so, it just became too embarrassing to come right out and ask them.

Last week, I noticed a help wanted sign on the door. So I asked them what was up. Well, this is what was up: “Jay’s retiring,” said Jay’s wife. “So is Jenny,” he chipped in. Now, I could have asked them their names, on the first day I met them. Instead, I found out the information as they are preparing for the last day I see them. My one consolation is the fact that I am pretty sure they don’t know my name.

Yesterday, I went into the store, and someone new was behind the counter. A friendly young woman, mid-30s. I asked her if she was the new employee, and she said yes. Then I asked her something else. “What is your name?” I said. “Nicole,” she answered me. “I’m Jim,” I said. Not making that mistake again. The next 29 years should be a breeze.

By Jim Hagarty
2006

I can think of a few differences between the editor of the New York Times and the editor of the Stratford City Gazette. For starters, he could probably fit my car in his trunk and my house on his back porch. (Why he’d want to do either is anybody’s guess, but you get the point.)

Secondly, I’m guessing his office stretches for miles and that a mighty oak tree gave up its life so that he could have a desk. I could be very wrong on this, but I am also taking a shot in the dark and suggesting that he doesn’t share his office with two reporters. But I think that possibly the biggest difference between the Times editor and I, can be wrapped up nicely by the following little story of something that happened to me, which I don’t think happens very often to him.

I was leaning back in my chair at the hair salon, anticipating having my hair washed in the sink in preparation for having it cut, when a woman moved into the chair next to me, pulled out her sharpshooters and let me have it point blank at close range. Very close range.

“Whatever possessed you to write that article?” my neighbour to my right asked me, about an opinion piece we recently ran. And as we were lowered down into our respective water basins, the fight was on. As an editor, it isn’t easy to defend yourself at the best of times, but it’s especially hard when you’re horizontal, water splashing over your head and running into your ears. But I fought back bravely. The offending piece was something I’d written a while back, calling into question the veracity of a news report in other papers. I had had the audacity to ask, in my article, whether or not the incident in question really ever took place. And shockingly, by inference, I guess, I had called into question the judgment of a leading Stratford citizen, something, apparently, that is not supposed to be done in this town.

Did I know how much investigation of this incident in question was done by the above-mentioned leading citizen, I was scolded, somewhere between the shampoo and the rinse.

“How much was done?” I asked. Well, it so happened, the leading citizen talked to someone who had witnessed the event, the only witness, in fact.

“That’s it?” I asked, impudently. “I talked to him too. What if he wasn’t telling the truth?”

Eventually, both hairdressers who were attending to this squabbling mob, sat both chairs upright again and launched arguer and arguee back onto our feet, From there, we continued our healthy discussion over the 15 feet from the sinks to the bank of hairdressers’ chairs and unfortunately, we were seated side by side again. The poor hairdressers waited patiently as each of us clambered for the higher ground, and eventually we were seated, mouths still firing away like pop guns at a carnival.

Finally, my opponent’s stylist came up with a brilliant plan. “Let’s get our hair dryers going,” she said to my hairdresser. “Maybe if they can’t hear each other, they’ll shut up.”

The break in the action was a welcome relief but it also signalled a too-soon-conclusion to my haircut, through which I usually am able to catch a few winks. Whether disturbed at having my opinion challenged or just mad at missing my sleep, I met my adversary at the counter where we paid a nervous-looking receptionist and writer and reader proceeded into the cold outside the shop and argued for another half an hour.

Can somebody point me in the direction of New York?

By Jim Hagarty
1992

God didn’t do too bad a job of creating the universe, given that He had no assistance and even had to work all weekend. Except for the odd foul up like poison ivy and mosquitoes which He probably came up with when He was overtired, He didn’t do that badly, especially considering this was His first attempt.

But at the risk of sounding smarter that the Creator, I have to take exception with the rather shabby way He designed the lowly cat. In fact, I’m going to go out on a limb here and give God less than a passing grade for His work on this particular animal. My theory is, the cat was His first attempt to create a dog but if that was the case, He should have never let it get past quality control.

For starters, what on earth – or wherever – was God thinking when He gave the cat such a mean disposition? He was getting along fine, fabricating sunshine and raindrops, snowflakes and honey but when did it occur to Him this entire affair would be a lot better off with a few million creatures running around that like to kill half the other creatures they meet and maim the rest? And if He felt the need for a being with this sort of temperament, would it follow that something like this should just naturally be outfitted with sharp teeth and claws? Wouldn’t it have made a bit more sense to put claws on all those fluffy little rabbits who would have used them for peaceful purposes only like cutting up their lettuce?

No, I have to say, if I’d been there and could have done anything about it, I’d have drawn the line at the cat and hustled it straight back to the drawing board. Off with the claws and the chainsaw teeth and on with a few more bunny-like attributes. And I think I would have suggested that the revised version of the cat come complete with a brain this time so that it could figure out a few things for itself. Like how to get situated on the same side of a door as its owner. (A typical cat thought: “Oh, look, there’s the old guy coming up the steps carrying groceries. Think I’ll go out and see him when that door opens. Oh, look. There he is in the house, now. Maybe I’ll go in there and see him as soon as this door opens. Oh, my, is that him back out by the car? I believe I’ll go out there…” This can go on all day.)

Yes, a brain would have helped, as would have a couple of other minor adjustments. For example, was it a truly sensible move to make the cat hypersensitive about cleanliness while at the same time, rendering it allergic to water? If I was making something that took a fit if one little smidgen of grime happened to find its way onto its paw, I would have also instilled in it a love for the very substance that could best get rid of that smudge: water. If birds and dogs and pigs all like it, could it not be good enough for the cat? What possessed the Creator to give the cat its tongue as its only means of satisfying its urge to shine like a brass lamp, a tongue that can gather up fur into a slimey ball which will end up on the back of the loveseat seven times out of 10 and on the carpet under the kitchen table the other three?

But as a creator, if all these things hadn’t been enough to discourage me from releasing the cat into the universal mix, I would surely have stopped after creating another pesky critter and made a decision.

“Okay, what’s it gonna be? Cat or flea? Flea or cat?”

Even for God, could two wrongs possibly make a right?

Of course, the biggest design flaw with the cat came when God made it cute. Otherwise, it would still be in the jungle where He surely must have intended it to stay.

By Jim Hagarty
2013
You learn something new every day. Please take note. The next time you sing for the residents of a nursing home, do not, I repeat, do not sing a fun song called Seven Old Ladies. Because everyone’s definition of fun is different, I guess. Up to that point, I was doing fantastically well and the audience loved me more than their own sons and daughters, several of whom were in the audience. However, as I sang Seven Old Ladies – a little ditty about seven unmarried and aged females who get stuck in a public washroom – people started looking at me as though I was slaying a box of kittens with a dull butcher knife. And there was no getting them back after that. I am setting fire to the lyric sheet as we speak. Another quirk of nursing home performances shows itself with other song choices. You strike off into a song, then realize that someone in the song is going to die before it ends. Such as Green Green Grass of Home. “As they lay me, ‘neath the green green grass of home.” I don’t know how it happens, but a nursing home singer who has not come properly prepared with a carefully thought out song list, just naturally seems to drift to songs involving dying. And die the singer will before he is finished as most of the songs he dreams up off the top of his head are as gloomy as a late November evening. The only appropriate word to use to describe the experience is, “Aaaargh!”

By Jim Hagarty
2007

The recent rain has been hailed as a good thing for the crops. We haven’t exactly suffered drought conditions this summer but things were getting a bit parched.

In my neighbourhood, I must say, it’s been a very good growing season. The flattened pop can crops along sidewalks and parking lots have not been stilted by the shortage of precipitation. Likewise, clear plastic water bottles, many still half full, have popped up like wildflowers everywhere, decorating the landscape with the glints of the sun that reflect off their shiny surfaces. The rows on rows of potato chip bags are much improved over last year when the quantity was noticeably down.

But most encouraging has been the comeback of the shopping cart crops that seemed to have withered in the recent past. The colourful growths – sturdy and standing as much as four feet tall – come in a variety of bright colours this year. And they can mostly be found in alleyways and parking lots, sometimes appearing overnight on front lawns. It is difficult to know, sometimes, who has sown the shopping carts as no one ever seems to claim them.

So, one day two weeks ago, my family and I decided to harvest some of them, as they seemed in danger of becoming overripe. So, my son grabbed a dark green one, my daughter a bright green one and we started returning them to the east end malls from where it seemed likely the shopping cart seeds had originated.

Alas, the young ones began complaining, as we marched along the main street of town in full view of four lanes of traffic, that the stores might think we had stolen the carts – and drivers (some of whom we probably knew) might also entertain strange thoughts. This had not occurred to me, so I hung back, to disassociate myself from the cart pushers ahead of me.

Alas, however, a third cart was spotted – a brilliant red one – and soon I was trudging along pushing the fruits of my labour too. Eventually, amidst much whining, complaining and self-pity (the kids objected too), we arrived at our destination and deposited our harvest at the appropriate locations. We hope to find our reward in Heaven as there appeared precious little immediate recompense for our good deeds.

Another scenario was suggested, again, one that l hadn’t thought of in my do-gooder haste. If the people growing the cart crops around our house know we’ll return them, won’t that just encourage them to bring home more? (Since when did they start teaching logic in the schools?)

Since then, like crops of hay that come back after their first cutting in June, the carts have returned, as lush as ever. But now we walk by them, hoping some other family might take up the harvest.

We are kept busy enough, as it is, reaping the wild coffee cup and the yellow donut box, and the occasional fast-food bag. We even took in two boxes of empty beer bottles from a lot next door. These we returned without hesitation and realized a $6 return on our investment!

Harvest time is my favourite season and has been since my boyhood days on the farm.