Lifetime Sentences

By Jim Hagarty
2014

How much does fear cost in monetary terms? I might have an answer.

On Feb. 26, I bought 1,000 shares of Ballard Power Systems on the Toronto Stock Exchange for $3.64 a share. The same day, I got a bit nervous as it was a company I had never owned and even though it had been doing great things this year, I “trusted my instincts” and sold it for $3.64, breaking even, except for the trading fees of $19.90. I congratulated myself on my caution.

Today, the stock reached a high so far of $9.32. That is an increase of $5.68 in 10 trading days. Had I held on, I would have made $5,680.00 instead of $0.00 and that’s if I sold it today. It might even go higher.

The swelling from the self-inflicted claw hammer blows to the side of my head is going down and the doctor thinks I have lost only five IQ points but having plenty left, I should be fine. Also he is still picking some shards of glass out of my shoulder where I hurled myself through a window.

Good old FDR: The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.

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Update: Today, Feb. 2, 2018, the stock is worth $4.20 a share. But things could have gone a lot worse for me if I had bought it at its peak. On March 10, 2000, Ballard hit its highest ever price of $189. Yikes.

By Jim Hagarty
1991

Sometimes it’s good to have been raised in the country because after years of working with animals, crops and machinery, you get to know a lot of practical information. You have a knowledge about things like weather, livestock, tractors and grease guns which serves you later in unexpected ways in your contacts with city slickers.

Country folk can often be seen taking over in emergency situations where their city cousins might panic and run. Especially when dealing with mechanical things and the natural world.

I had reason to be grateful for my rural background recently when, in downtown Stratford one sunny afternoon, I spied a little baby bird on a busy sidewalk, squawking as it looked up into the concerned face of an elderly woman who was staring down at the bird sympathetically, but helplessly. Before I could make it over to the scene, a young woman not out of her teens also stopped by the infant bird and stared at it with pity. Neither woman obviously had any idea what to do for the helpless creature at their feet.

I hustled over to join the drama and looking up, spotted a bird’s nest high above on the window sill of an old hotel. I knelt on one knee, comforted the panicking little bird and, then explained to the women what had happened. I pointed up to the window sill, and as they peered up too, I told them calmly them how the mother bird, which by now was pacing back and forth and looking down at us, had just kicked her baby out of the nest in a bid to teach it to fly. The little bird, unfortunately, had failed the test, and now, quite possibly, was doomed to suffer the fate of most weak things in nature.

“Isn’t there something we could do?” asked the younger woman. “Shouldn’t we call somebody?” she asked, fear in her voice.

I tried to reassure her. Sometimes, these things are best left to fate.

By now, a busy lunch-time crowd was gathering to watch the scene. A little, helpless bird, looking up pleadingly into the face of a former farm boy kneeling before it. I could sense the time for action had arrived.

“There is one thing I can do,” I said, and I tipped my vinyl cheque book down in front of the bird until one edge touched the sidewalk and formed a ramp for my little friend to climb. It wobbled up the ramp and stopped.

“Maybe he just needs another shot at it,” I said to the crowd, which stood in awe as city slickers do when a country kid takes over.

With that, I flung the cheque book sharply into the air and launched the little bird back on its flight path. But, with dismay I watched as it failed to flap its little wings and its flight path led straight back down to the sidewalk. There was a gasp from the crowd as the bird landed, not on its feet, but directly on its little, grey, fuzzy head. The landing had the effect of knocking the bird out cold. It also put a dent in the esteem for me that had been building in the crowd on the street. Silence hung over the onlookers, as the bird now lay, seemingly dead, on the pavement.

“It’s just stunned,” I said, but my words went unheard. The crowd instead had already taken to listening to a young man and his female companion who had just emerged from the hotel and who didn’t look like they’d ever even stopped their car in the country, let alone lived there. Instructing his friend to stay with the bird, he went back into the hotel to call the Humane Society.

In five minutes, an animal-control officer emerged from a van that had screeched up. He grabbed the bird, which was, coming around by this time, and said he’d take it to the animal shelter where they’d feed it and eventually release it. As he spoke, I listened from the back of the crowd to where I had somehow been repositioned.

And I remarked to myself how city slickers are such know-it-alls.

By Jim Hagarty
2014

If you live in the United States and you would prefer not to be shot, a good course of action might be to not sign up for a gun safety class. Last week, a Florida man accidentally shot himself in the leg just after leaving such a class. Last year in Ohio, a gun safety instructor accidentally shot a student during class. And in 2012, a Virginia man accidentally shot himself and his wife during a gun safety class.

Imagine showing up early for your gun safety class, all scrubbed up and shiny, pencil case and notebook in tow, all ready to go. The teacher comes in, says, “Good morning class”, writes a few things on the blackboard, takes out his gun and then turns around and shoots you.

A few questions here. If you can’t complete the course on account of, you know, being dead, do you pass or fail? Does the teacher get a cut in pay or is he forced to take some retraining and what if he gets shot during his retraining class? Now, if you are a gun teacher’s wife, is it advisable for you to accompany hubby to class where he shoots you and himself? Who drives home?

How does a teacher review board assess a gun safety teacher who shoots his students, his wife, or himself? Are there different ratings based on the level of injury or who it is who gets shot? Five points off for a student, three for a wife, two for yourself? Does this affect enrolment in the class next semester? Would students shy away from a class in which they might get shot? I am guessing, in certain parts of the United States, that probably wouldn’t put them off a bit.

Recently, a suicide bomb instructor accidentally blew himself and 22 of his students up. How would you rate a teacher like that? He certainly showed his class exactly how it should be done. I used to teach and while I did have my good moments, I was never as thorough as that.

Somewhere in the world, at least once, a person who just moved into a new neighbourhood was run over by the Welcome Wagon.

Oh cruel irony. You suck!

By Jim Hagarty
1988

Some staunch defenders of free enterprise, offended by heritage conservationists, now and then sound strong warnings about the threat to our economic system and our very way of life posed by those meddlesome busybodies who have nothing better to do with their days than run around the towns of this nation trying to save old buildings. The rights of property owners are under siege, they warn. The owners of businesses should be able to do whatever they want to do with their places without interference from anyone, they argue. Economic ruin awaits us, they predict, if we don’t stop this blight of preservation from eating away the leaves on the capitalistic tree of life.

The logic of such “sky is falling” rhetoric might pass the test of common sense but for several reasons. First of all, there is very little “free enterprise” left in this country for anyone – heritage lovers or not – to take away. Governments are involved in almost every aspect of business, industry and the professions today and that presence is increasing, not diminishing, as recent legislation regarding such issues as smoking, safety in the workplace, pollution and pay equity shows.

Secondly, towns and cities which have voluntarily embraced heritage conservation as a way to both enhance the quality of life in their communities and attract outside trade and commerce are not dying on the vine but in fact, are leaving behind those places too set in their ways to consider anything but the “knock it down and replace it” concept of development.

Thirdly, architects working on everything from large new hotels and homes to small new additions to existing business building are climbing on the heritage train, incorporating arches, round windows, false fronts, brick siding, ornate light standards and all sorts of other popular 19th century building techniques or offshoots of them into their 20th century designs. So old, old-looking buildings which are knocked down now are likely to be replaced by new, old-looking buildings at considerable cost and questionable gain.

But the major flaw in the call to let us an do our own thing unrestricted in any way by government and its citizens in this matter of the preservation of heritage architecture or the destruction of it is the way this appeal ignores the sad lessons in other areas of Canadian life and how we’re now paying and may pay for many more years for the mistakes made during the decades of too few controls. Some careless industrialists and farmers and of course, the general public, allowed to carry on without restrictions or at best with very few, have given us an environment which now may be permanently damaged. Totally free enterprise has given us acid rain, poisoned lakes and rivers, eroded soil, urban development on good agricultural land and something called the greenhouse effect. Much of this damage, experts say, is irreversible.

What we need to do as the 20th century comes to a close is to keep those things from the past which are still of value and throw away those things which have ceased to serve us well, including attitudes and practices.

Municipal planners, elected officials, business people and private citizens alike should work at preserving the beauty of the best of our historic architecture and give up the brave but foolish notion that a few dollars and a signature on a document entitles us to do whatever we like with property we have had the good fortune to be able to buy.

Twenty-five years ago, environmentalists were crackpots and hippies. Now, we know they were, in many cases, visionaries. Will we also have to wait 25 years to discover with regret that heritage preservationists, too, were right all along?

By Jim Hagarty
2012

My neighbour was out polishing his Corvette today so I told him he was doing a good job.

“Everybody’s got to have a toy, Jim,” he said. “Life is short.”

I agreed with him and said I wondered what my toy would be. My laptop? My guitar?

“Whatever happened to your sports car?” he asked. I told him we had to trade it in on a more practical car when the family came along. “I saw one just like it in Sebringville the other day,” I said. “Maybe I’ll get one again some day.”

“Don’t wait too long,” said my neighbour. “Life is short.” I kind of wished he’d quit saying that. By the way, he has two Corvettes. And he isn’t rich.

He reminds of a musician friend of mine who at one point had 12 high-quality guitars, one of them worth $5,000. He said he had no use for RRSPs and GICs and any other savings plans. He’d rather have his savings sitting there in his studio where he can see them and polish them and play them. And when the rainy day comes, he can sell a guitar or any number of them.

He’s never commented to me on how short life is but I have a feeling he’s just itching to. He better not put off telling me that because, you know, life is short and all.

By Jim Hagarty
1989

I guess it’s inevitable that once in a while, people’s surnames will relate in some amusing way to their occupations. In fact, I’ve noticed a lot of such cases lately so I’ve started keeping track. Here’s my list so far.

John Field is a farm management specialist who I hear is outstanding in his (don’t embarrass me by making me say it). Garry Lean is an organic farmer who promotes safer meat products, but that’s a thin connection, isn’t it? When John Tory first realized what his name was, he could see no future for himself except as the Conservative Party organizer he is. And Dale Willows climbed to the top of the Guelph-based environmental group Tree Watch and when asked if he’d like to be president of the organization, replied, “I wood.” And he is.

James Coyne was Bank of Canada governor years ago until he was flipped out of the job. George Pond, of Simcoe, is a naturalist and as I understand it, quite a deep man. I wish him well. Raleigh Buckmaster, of Iowa, is a deer rancher. And Joe Pushcart just sort of shoved his way into the job of junkman in Plainsville, Connecticut.

The Quebec cabinet minister who resigned over the province’s French-only sign law last year is named Richard French, or should that be Richard Francois? Barry Player is a Winnipeg guitar player, or at least he picks away at it. And Anne London is a reporter with The London Free Press. Rumor has it she’s worked at other big city newspapers under, various assumed names including Anne Hamilton, Anne Windsor and Anne Toronto. A rising Star.

Mary Beth Peacock is with the Ontario Humane Society so be kind to her and don’t ruffle her feathers and Peggy Green is the leader of a 4-H landscaping club so thumbs up to her too. Andre Bureau is a chief federal bureaucrat with the Canadian Radio Television and Telecommunications Commission but good luck trying to telecommunicate with him.

For some reason, a lot of doctors have names bearing a bit of irony in light of their profession although Drs. Illman, Deadman, Aikenhead, Payne and Death never suffered for business because of their monikers, as far as I know. Either has the Trench funeral home in Listowel or the Box funeral home in Parkhill. A friend of mine regularly hires Flood Plumbing from New Hamburg and is happy with the work they do. Ann Bald does a good hairdressing business in Sebringville, I’ve heard.

Kitchener lawyers Stewart Dollar and Richard Buck both know how to make a living. Dr. W.E. Nurse, a Kitchener obstetrician, is both a doctor and a Nurse so he’s a real team player though confusion sometimes ensues whenever Dr. Nurse is paged over the public address system in the hospital.

Car shot? Call Schott Auto Service in Waterloo or in that same city, try Wheeler Motors. Another dealer.

Next Easter, get your blooming flowers at the Bloomingdale Garden Centre and for cards to mark the occasion, contact Bunny Sicard, public relations co-ordinator for Hallmark greeting cards, Easter promotions.

Whatever your request, she’ll hop right to it.

By Jim Hagarty
2007

I’ve always had a pretty good memory (as far as I can recall) but I have come to recognize that I do have the odd blind spot. Sort of like that page that the cat ate out of the novel: You can try to piece things together, but you’ll never really have the whole story ever again.

The main memory block that I now know is a part of my mental capacity involves medical people – family doctors, pharmacists, optometrists, dermatologists, blood-specimen takers, etc. When I am in the presence of any of these good people, that little part of my brain that should be set to record while the information is coming at me, almost always just turns completely off, all by itself. Like the VCR shutting down prematurely because the video you were trying to record onto while you were away has run out of tape.

When our children were small, on occasion, I would be assigned to take them to the doctor. Interrogated later as to what was the specific message given regarding the particular ailment and possible cure by the medical staff, I would almost always have to plead complete ignorance. It was as though I really hadn’t taken them to the doctor at all but instead, hiked off to the playground for some sliding and swinging. Inevitably, a call would have to be placed to various nurses to try to nail down the specifics of medicines, suggested routines, etc. If it was a drug store we’d been at, the pharmacist would receive a friendly call (not from me).

Was that one pill every eight hours, or eight pills every hour?
I don’t know why this is so, except that I am pretty sure I tense up when in the presence of anyone in medical-type frocks and fatigues. These people, it would appear, hold within their hands the power of my life and death and aren’t to be messed with.

In contrast, as a reporter, I can usually come away from an interview with a pretty complete set of written – and mental – notes. But in most of those cases, I am not talking to someone who next week might be massaging my heart to try to get it going again or sewing my head back together after I fall off my roof. In most newspaper circumstances, I am more in the driver’s seat.

So it was on Monday that once again, I went to the doctor and once again, drew a blank practically before I left the examination room. He detailed several instructions and I even asked him to repeat some of them. By the time I walked the 15 feet from there to the nurses’ station, most of it was gone.

“How’d your doctor’s appointment go,” came the question on my arrival home.

“Good,” I replied. “He told me what I had to do if I wanted to live a long life.”

“Well,” she said. “What do you have to do?”

“I’m not quite sure,” I said. Something about Vitamin D and Omega 3 and skim milk and vegetables.

It’s a bit worrying to not be able to remember the prescription for a long life. That seems like that would be fairly important information to have. Life’s too short as it is, in fact, not to be able to recall those steps.

I’ve resisted the lure of those modern digital recording devices for about as long as I can, I suppose. I have one – I just never get around to listening to what I’ve recorded. I always forget to.