Author: Jim Hagarty

May You Know What You Want
And Know What You Don’t
And Follow Your Heart
When Your Mind Says You Won’t
And Hear Your Soul’s Voices
And Make Peace With Your Choices

JH

By Jim Hagarty
1986

It’s a phenomenon stranger than jet lag the way a person’s nationality transforms itself in the air mid-way between America and the Old Country.

A few weeks before departure, an Ireland-bound young Canadian with Irish roots is, most positively, an Irishman. Sure, his thick, Irish accent’s lost a little in 150 years and he’s a few freckles shy of a faceful but he’s as Irish as whiskey, spuds and the colour green and eternally proud to call himself so.

“Yes, well, I’ve never actually been there before,” he tells you before he leaves, “but I know the country like the back of my hand. My ancestors were from there, of course, and I’ve been readin’, hearin’ and singin’ about Ireland all my life.”

But to the seatmate on the airplane, a “real” Irish native heading home for a visit to Dublin after three years in Toronto, our young traveller begins to confide his tremendous pride in his native Canada and before the five-hour flight is over, the conversation has switched from talk about Irish pubs, castles and cobblestones to Canadian landscape, history and hockey teams.

When both feet finally land on Irish soil for the first time, the proud young Irishman from Stratford, Ontario, turns suddenly as Canadian as Pierre Trudeau, Gordon Lightfoot and Anne of Green Gables. And to all the other natives of Ireland he meets over the next three weeks, he introduces himself, not as an Irishman, but as a Canadian.

Before the trip ends, though he loves the Emerald Isle even more now than he did in his dreams and his songs, he begins to miss home. Small things he longs for. Like a hot, dry sun on a dusty day in mid-July. Country music on the radio. The CBC National News. The sight of wide open fields and people with suntans.

Heading home, mid-Atlantic, le voyageur Canadien gets clunked again across the back of the noggin by the shillelagh of whatever leprechaun knocked the Irish out of him at about the same in-flight spot three weeks earlier and once again, he’s an Irishman.

Next night. Gathering of relatives. Guess what? There’s not a country on earth as beautiful as Ireland. People are the friendliest in the world. Food tastes best. Women are the prettiest. Singers are the finest. Music’s the most musical.

And get this. Can’t wait to go back.

He really can’t.

(Update 2018: The boy has been back to Ireland five times since he wrote this story.)

St. Patrick, after whom are named churches and schools in Ellice Township’s Kinkora and Hibbert Township’s Dublin in Canada, while he was a saint, was not above having “one of those days.” A particularly bad one occurred the day he climbed the steep hill up to the castle above the town of Cashel, Ireland, to baptize the king of that region. The baptism was supposed to be quite a coup for Pat. He reckoned, probably rightly so, that it’d be a cinch to get the natives to line up for baptism if he could get the king to agree to it. However, having climbed the hill, the aging man of religion was exhausted and took a breather at the top, resting his chin on his staff, the sharp point of which, went through the king’s foot. The king, normally murderous when dealing with people who hurt him, said nothing, believing the punctured foot was all part of the baptism ritual. The natives thought so too and took off running back to their heathen lives in the woods.

This all occurred in about the middle of the fifth century. The town, hill, castle and the rock the king lay across to be baptized – are still there. (Actually, the rock is a replica. The real one is in a museum.)

In a pub in Sligo, Ireland, I thought I’d open up a lively discussion by telling this friendly looking Irishman that near my home back in Canada, there is a village of 350 souls called Dublin. I picked the wrong guy to tell that to. Turned out he’s a postal worker from the original Dublin and he wasn’t much impressed. There are 13 Dublins in the world, he said, including one in Poland.

Dublin, however, is not the only Irish name in Perth County and area in Canada where I live and it’s a strange feeling to drive into towns and villages over there that bear the same names as here. Places such as Lucan, Listowel, Donegal, Palmerston, Carlingford, Tralee and Cromarty. And we saw a fancy home this nameplate on the gate: Kinckora House.

Have a grand St. Patrick’s Day.

May your feet always stay warm in bed.
May the dandruff all fall from your head.
May you find a thin dime in your pants
After getting home from the dance.
May you never slip in the tub
Or get caught as you pee on a shrub.
May your dog never barf in your shoe
Or your debtors ever catch up with you.
May you think for yourself every day
And do things your own goddamn way.
And if the Devil tries bringing you down
May he fall in a river and drown.

By Jim Hagarty
2016

So the sidewalk snowplow guy phoned the city snow department and told his boss he needed a new sidewalk plow.

“How wide are the sidewalks there Harrufus?”, asked the boss.

Harrufus Smith informed the Snow Man that the city sidewalks were 40 inches wide.

“Perfect,” responded his boss with a somewhat evil chuckle. “We’ll order you a new plow with a 60 inch blade.” Concerned, Harrufus said that the new plow would carve up 10 inches of sod on either side of the sidewalks and cause homeowners to run to the street, haul him out of the cab of the small tractor and pummel him half to death with their snow shovels.

“You leave that to me,” replied the demented Snow Man. “And Harrufus,” he ordered sternly. “Change that goofy name of yours.” So the poor sidewalk snowplow driver started using his new machine this week and changed his name to Harrufus Jones.”

Visitation for Harrufus is Monday from 2 to 4 p.m. Mrs. Smith-Jones requests monetary donations to the Neighbourhood Sidewalk Vigilance Committee in lieu of flowers.

Harrufus was a good man.

By Jim Hagarty
2006

I was busy just now scribbling down all the benefits of owning cats as house pets and, while l am not known for my lack of imagination, I have been able to come up with only one. In the 16 months since we adopted our two little homewreckers on paws, our mouse population has decreased by five. Cherubic as they can look when they want to, the truth is our cats are cold-blooded murderers. It’s a bit chilling to know you’re sharing your house with two creatures who kill for fun, but as long as they keep sending mice off to the great beyond, I am willing to let them spend as much time in the garage – the scene of most of their crimes – as they want.

So, the score is 5-2: We’ve lost five mice, but gained two cats. Also to be counted are the dozens of insects of every description which have found their way down the gullets of our two wily miscreants. Though entirely finished, our basement has always had its share of earwigs, spiders and those awful, wispy centipede-type thingies that make everyone’s skin crawl (though it is claimed they are somehow beneficial, consuming smaller grubs). Since the arrival of our tag team made up of Mario and Luigi, the bugs have mysteriously disappeared.

So, as pest controllers, our cats are an excellent investment. But they are seriously lacking in their housekeeping skills and seem intent on reducing the abode we took so many years to fix up, to a decrepit shack. This has prompted me, on more than one occasion, to grumble loudly, “They’re not living in a house; we’re living in a barn!”

Declarations such as these (and worse) elicit no sympathy from a family who, perversely, seem to delight in my cat-derived misery. But tell me, how would you like to have to spend an hour on a Sunday night duct-taping the lamps in your rec room to the wooden endtables on which they are supposed to sit because they are continually being knocked over? I’m going to be honest: I can think of better things to do.

Our cats are not large creatures, but in the past year, they have performed acts that seemed to be beyond their abilities to do. Cats are not supposed to be able to knock over coffee tables or shove the cushions off chesterfields and chairs. They can’t knock over stereo speakers that stand almost four feet high and while I can see a small lamp hitting the floor after they fly by it, large lamps, especially free-standing floor lamps, should be too much for them.

Heading to the rec room one afternoon after returning from work, I was concerned that our place might have been broken into and ransacked. Ransacked it was, but not broken into. Our inventory of wrecked household items post cat arrival is a long and sad one. It includes houseplants, library books (one of them a brand new, hardcover volume – one of our guys is a chewer), lampshades, one wooden endtable, one stereo speaker, posters, letters, bank statements, newspapers, magazines and other materials that don’t spring instantly to mind.

General destruction has involved carpeting, upholstery and solid pine doors which now are etched with lengthy cat scratches.

If a couple of thugs broke into our place and left it in shambles, we’d be devastated and would be on the phone to the police and insurance company. Instead, we’ve brought in our own demolition crew and we even haul in hundreds of pounds of food and cat litter to keep them going.

They live their days in luxury, and comfort; if they were human, they’d be serving time behind bars. And I would never visit them.

By Jim Hagarty
2018
Reading the reactions of a lot of people to high school students briefly leaving classes to call for measures to end school shootings reminds me that an awful lot of people hate kids. They despise them. And for some reason, they have no problem publicizing their loathing of young people. What is sadder is that a lot of these haters are parents. Men and women who espouse “tough love.” In my experience, “tough love” is the first cousin to “no love.” A woman once told me, “You can love your kids too much.” Yes, I thought, as I walked away, that is the problem with the world today. Kids are getting too much love from their parents. I really wish the people who think this way would commit to staying childless. They will be happier being free of offspring and the kids they might have had will be spared a childhood where the lovin’ is measured out in miserly, tough amounts and where the kids have to jump through impossible hoops to get any at all.

By Jim Hagarty
1988

As I predicted would happen, the social scientists of this world are running out of things to study.

You know they’re getting close to the bottom of the research pile when they turn their attention to the bully, a creature that’s been around making people miserable since long before Davey got fed up and beaned Goliath on the forehead with a stone. But, there it is – a study saying most childhood bullies lead unhappy lives as adults too. Worse yet, they reproduce and populate the planet with even more bullies.

Personally, I’d hate to have been the researcher who went into the office one fine, sunny morning to be told by his boss that his assignment for the next month would be to a study on bullies. That’s really pulling the short straw as far as I’m concerned. I’d rather live for a year with a family of gorillas in Africa than hike around interviewing bullies. Imagine making your living going up to them and asking, “Pardon me, can you tell me why you’re such a jerk?” Or living with them in their lair for a month to observe their moods.

I suppose this world will be a better place when we get all this bully stuff down on paper and have a look at it. I just think researchers could have saved themselves a lot of time and, money if they’d only called me up before they got started. I’ve been studying bullies all my life, sometimes from over my shoulder as I was running away from them and at other times, head on as I was running after them.

I could have offered the study these 10 useful tips:

1. If a bully wants your baloney sandwich during recess, give it to him. You can get more baloney easier than you can more teeth.

2. Never say derogatory things about a bully’s mother. His sister is also a poor choice for insults.

3. Never make a best friend out of a bully. When he temporarily runs out of people, dogs, cats and frogs to bother, he’ll eventually start on you.

4. Small bullies are more dangerous than big bullies. They can generally run faster and can crawl into the same small places you can. Big bullies can usually get by with just a lot of huffing and puffing and rarely, if ever, do they feel the need to actually blow your house down. But if they do take a notion, I would advise brick as a suitable siding.

5. Lend only to bullies the money you are sure you never want to see again.

6. Never pay attention to a bully. It has the same effect as watering a weed.

7. Do not, under any circumstances, agree to let a bully show you what he learned in karate class last week. Memorize the following statement: “What are you worried about? I won’t hurt you. Honest.” When you hear these words, leave the scene immediately. Better a live chicken than a dead duck.

8. Bullies start out as baseball card extortionists and become tailgaters in their teenage years. Kicking sand in skinny guys’ faces is a skill developed much later.

9. Bullies come in all shapes, sizes and both sexes. Don’t mistake the bully for the guy with tattoos on his forearms and his hair in a pony tail. He might be nicer than you. Probably is. Real bullies rarely look like bullies. Sometimes they wear expensive clothes and smile a lot. Bulliness is a state of mind, not an appearance. It has nothing to do with motorcycles.

10. Bullies want love. They need love. We are all bullies.

By Jim Hagarty
1987

Everybody’s demanding his or her rights these days and I think this is a good thing.

I was considering demanding a few myself but I realized one day I’ve already got pretty well all the rights I can handle and a few I can’t. Besides, most of the people who are out there campaigning for a fairer shake have a big headstart on me. And if they get all the rights they want, I’ll probably lose half of mine.

But somewhere out there in the crowded field of placard-waving malcontents, there surely has to be a little patch of ground available for yet one more marcher. Because there is one cause I’d like to take up. (Actually, there are two causes but society’s shameful discrimination against left-handed people, of which I am one, has already been well publicized by others, though the injustices continue. How’d you like to called a southpaw all your life?)

My gripe is this. Why are bachelors treated so badly in this married persons’ world?

Even the very words used to identify us betray just how much society favours married people. We are called unmarried, unattached, unwed and single, all terms denoting some sort of lack. (Any word beginning with the prefix “un” usually refers to something not so good as in undesirable, unintelligent, unpleasant. Unattached conjures up an image of us being not joined at the joints.) And why are we called single? Married men aren’t called unsingle.

Unflattering stereotypes perpetuated by today’s TV shows portray bachelors as either sex-crazed, demented and dangerous, or awkward, nerdy and hapless. Not since the days of Ben Cartwright and his three noble sons on Bonanza have bachelors been shown to have the least bit of character. Who are our role models today? Hillbilly brothers Larry, Darrell and his other brother Darrell along with dopey handyman George Utley on The Bob Newhart Show. And nutsy detective David Addison on Moonlighting. Married men, on the other hand, are handsome, educated, witty and sensitive. Check out Dr. Cliff Huxtible on The Bill Cosby Show and Steven Keaton on Family Ties.

Married people have most of the children in this world. Single people have very few. Bachelors have none. Parents, then, raise their kids to think all adults should be married like themselves, thus perpetuating the bias against bachelors.

Society believes there’s something wrong with people who are not married by a certain age. This is why their married friends and relatives continuously plot to get them married. Hence the blind date which they themselves never have to go on and never would twice if they ever did once.

Bachelors never get to own station wagons.

Married people get the best tables in restaurants. Bachelors get shuffled off to sit in a corner under the air conditioner or by the washroom doors. On airplanes, bachelors are seated beside either a teenage boy and girl who just discovered the joys of kissing in public or a pots and pans salesman from Toledo who says “Yuhnowatamean?” a lot.

Groceries in supermarkets are usually packaged for married families. Thus, the best prices are on the largest quantities. But a large box of Kleeno laundry detergent can last a bachelor longer than he’ll need his clothes. (Except his best suit, that is.)

Single people pay more income tax than married people. And more insurance.

A bachelor can never be broke – “What have you got to spend your money on?” – or tired – “You’re tired? How’d you like to change kids’ diapers 10 times a day?” – or busy – “You? Busy? Doing what?”

Bachelor apartments have no bedrooms. Why?

Bachelors die six years younger than married men. This is unfair and should be changed.

There are very few bachelors in Canadian politics. Those who make it up the ladder usually hit every rung with their head on the way down. Ask Richard Hatfield. He was toppled by, you guessed it, a married man.

To you, these may sound like idle and empty grievances. And maybe they are. But a lot of equal rights campaigns have been whipped up out of a lot less.

All I want is a station wagon, an apartment with a bedroom, a small box of Kleeno and some tax deductions.

Is that too much too ask?

(Problem solved. Now married with children. Still no station wagon.)