Category: Uncategorized

By Jim Hagarty
2015
It is a struggle to be born and a struggle to die. We don’t want to leave the womb, we don’t want to leave the world. We are afraid to give up what we have in the womb for a world we know nothing about. We are afraid to give up what we have in this world for a new world we know nothing about. But this world is so much better than the womb, the next world will be so much better than this one. Fear not, for energy can never be created nor destroyed, only transformed into another kind of energy. We were alive before our conception and birth and we will be alive after our death. No beginning, no end. Only Limitless Love into Eternity. All is well.

By Jim Hagarty
1993

It’s been coming on for quite a while now and all I want to know is, who started it?

Who was the first driver to decide that henceforth, a red traffic light would not mean stop? Instead, it would indicate: Speed up and drive like an Andretti! And why did the rest of the driving world follow that clown like kids at a circus?

As one old enough to remember when the yellow caution light was first added to the red and the green, I can recall the days when people slammed on the brakes to stop for yellow. Only those too far into the intersection to stop safely would keep on going when a yellow light appeared, and that was perfectly legal. By the time the red light flashed on, drivers facing the green could be sure everything coming from the other direction was halted and it was safe to proceed.

Still with me? I didn’t think so. But, I’ve got to finish this column so I’ll keep on going.

Over the past several years, slowly but surely, the yellow caution light has come to be totally meaningless, except that now, when most drivers see it, no matter how far out of the intersection they are, they immediately tramp on the gas. So the yellow light, which used to mean slow down! now means don’t slow down! No new laws have been passed to make the change. Instead, the people have spoken. It is the law of the asphalt jungle.

Fine. So we’ve got that straight.

Or almost straight.

Let’s go over it again.

1. A red light used to mean stop! Now it means, accelerate! You see it all the time nowadays. The light turns red and the last car speeding towards the corner enters the intersection after the light has changed. He knows it will take the drivers coming from the other directions a second or two to respond to the green and launch themselves into his path. By that time, he’ll be long gone. Now, that’s being in a hurry when those two seconds are that important to you.

2. A yellow light used to mean slow down! Now it says, floor it! Basically, the yellow can be ignored as just a reminder that the red light which can be ignored is just about to flash on. The last time I saw someone stop for a yellow light, John Lennon and Yoko Ono were still strangers.

3. Finally, the green light which used to mean go! now indicates, thanks to all those awfully busy, oh-so-important drivers out there who have changed the rules for us all: Don’t go! Are you crazy? Wait at least three seconds and look both ways to make sure all the red-light jumpers are gone. Then go!

So, what’s the solution?

Tell you what, I’m going to save the Ministry of Transportation $2 million on a study of the situation with the following suggestion.
Because the yellow light is now doing absolutely no good after the green and before the red, let’s move it so that it comes after the red and before the green.

Then, in 20 years, when no one dares go on the green and no one bothers to stop at all on the red, we can switch back to the old system.

I think that system was: every man for himself and the first one to the funeral home wins.

By Jim Hagarty
2011

I recently wrote about my first personal computer and how the one I have now has 500 times the amount of RAM that my first one had and how its hard drive is 2,000 times bigger. My first computer cost $4,000, my newest one cost $400. If my newest one was priced the same as the first one but the price was based on the amount of RAM, it would have cost me two million dollars. If the price was based on the size of the hard drive, it would have cost eight million dollars.

Now, let’s go the other way. My newest computer cost me only 10 per cent of what I paid for my first one. If that trend continues, a computer I buy in 2028, should cost me between 20 cents and 80 cents and, of course, be between 500 and 2,000 times more powerful.

But here’s the sad thing. I might not be able to afford one by then.

By Jim Hagarty
2007

When the snow was still on the ground this spring and puddles of water threatened to turn our backyard into a marsh, I wandered outside in my boots to tackle a little project I’d been putting off for years. A pile of soil behind the shed, left over from the excavating that was done when the shed was built, needed to be finally taken down and distributed in various flowers beds around our lot. This I accomplished by chopping away at the “mountain” every day and wheeling five wheelbarrows full of dirt around the yard. After five loads, I’d quit and move onto other things.

People have laughed at this approach to things – for example, I clean one window in the house per day, and then quit – but I’ve discovered that by doing this, just as the turtle defeated the hare, I accomplish more in the long run, I don’t get sick of a task so easily, and I do a better overall job.

This method of mountain removal also gave me a bit of time to think, along with regular exercise. And I also discovered a few things I didn’t know. For one, bumble bees were hibernating deep down in the soil of the the hill I was taking down. My shovel uncovered little nest after nest (or whatever they’re called) and out would tumble very dopey, and no doubt surprised, bees. I hated to interrupt their long slumber party, but I had to get on with things. I am still scratching my head wondering how these fragile little beings managed to burrow themselves so deeply into the soil. Or were they hatched from eggs in there?

The other surprise came in the form of a sprightly young robin who became my pal for the next few months. We discovered each other first when I was removing a kids’ sandbox, uncovering juicy, appetizing earthworms in the process. The robin had a picnic that first day and for the rest of the summer, whenever I was out in the yard, I could count on a visit from the bird, especially when I was digging up the mountain and uncovering more worms. And even later, when I had planted a big patch of grass and was watering it with a sprinkler, he showed up to sit under the shower and take regular baths.

I know I shouldn’t do others’ thinking for them, but this little guy must have thought I was just about the best human being on earth, supplying, as I was, practically all of his needs.

As the days stretched on, he became more and more comfortable with me, and would inch fairly close to me. If I moved his way, he would do a little dance away, but not in any panic. And when I turned, he’d come back again.

But he was a greedy little lad, showing up alone on every occasion but two or three when I think he brought a girlfriend along. It was as though he didn’t want anyone else knowing about this secret Shangri-la on Albert Street that he’d found.

A couple weeks ago, my buddy wandered away and I don’t know where’s he’s gone. South, maybe. To tell you the truth, I was kind of missing his comforting presence until last weekend when a replacement showed up to supervise my building of a clubhouse for my son.

Taking a break on Saturday, I sat in a lawnchair, admiring our work and trying to enjoy some pop and chips. A bee started a bit of a dive-bomb exercise, making relaxing almost impossible. At one point, I looked over to see him crawling out of my pop can.

I don’t like bees, mostly, but this one’s been hanging around me ever since and he seems benign enough. But there is one thing that appears to get him riled up and that is the sound of my sawing lumber. He buzzes all around my hand as I try to do my job, as though to stop me.

Or maybe he’s still ticked off about that mountain thing.

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.

---

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!