Author: Jim Hagarty

By Jim Hagarty
2001

I have long known that I am somewhat different from your average human being and nothing illustrates that terminal uniqueness more than my opposition to motion-sensor lights. You know, those little seeing-eye devices that peer down from the upper corners of large rooms and sensing no motion, turn off the lights to save electricity. Who else but the cranky old storyteller hereby addressing you would be bothered to spend enough time thinking about this modern-day invention to become upset about it? But I am. Darned mad, in fact.

My disenchantment with this modern wonder stems not from the fact that it doesn’t work, but that it works too well. It can crack the lights off in a instant and whack ’em back on even quicker. Where it runs into a little trouble, however, is in the way it defines motion. Maybe it’s a matter of how its individual users program it for the specific room it’s in, but some of these gizmos seem as if they would hardly respond if a tornado ripped the ceiling off while others would spring into action if a fly hiding under a desk scratched its nose.

So, this is the basis of my disapproval. The thing is simply unreliable and as a man gets older, unreliability and unpredictability are twin evils to be deplored.

Perhaps my disenchantment has its origins in the time I was teaching a summer college course at 8:30 a.m. one fine Monday morning. Though the ranks in the rows before me were somewhat depleted, given the time of day, the season and the subject, there were, even at that, almost twenty hardy souls gathered there to hear the words of wisdom that dribbled from my mouth in those days like spring waters over the rocks in a stream.

So, when my truly dedicated crew had taken their seats, I started dribbling. And as the gentle rhythms of the babbling brook can have a certain soothing effect on those who listen to its cadence for a while, so too can a college instructor’s gentle voice calm the human spirit, especially the spirits of humans who have spent the weekend just past in wild celebration the likes of which have not been seen since the end of our most recent world war.

In what seemed like an alarmingly brief period, all normal student activity – note passing, arm stretching, paper rustling, cartoon doodling – had ground to a halt. And there, before this sea of tranquility, stood a weary teacher who was finding it difficult on this day to become animated by a section of course material on which he had lectured dozens of times before. Like a recording star grown tired of singing his same old hits, the teacher was suddenly weary of hearing himself yak on.

So, how best to describe the degree of inactivity in this classroom setting on this day? Perhaps the motion sensor said it best. In a room where twenty-one human beings were engaged in the stimulating process of acquiring and delivering a college education, the lights went out. So little movement was being generated by the gathering, not even by a lecturer in mid-flight, to interest a little black box up in a corner of the room. So, it pulled the plug, the modern-day equivalent, in this case, perhaps, of giving the hook to the Vaudevillian actor dying on stage.

To re-activate the scene, I had no choice but to get something going, so I waved my arms frantically in the air till illumination returned. As distressing as the embarrassment of suffering through a negative review by a motion sensor was the fact that at least half the students hadn’t seemed to notice that their classroom had suddenly plunged into darkness. And many of them appeared, as a result, to have only slipped into a deeper level of sleep during the light-less interlude. A change in their rapid-eye movement dream-cycle resulted, perhaps, from the onset of darkness.

For the remainder of that session and the semester, I dashed about during lectures in that classroom like a hands-on preacher in a gospel tent, my students seemingly startled at the surge of energy with which I was from then on approaching my lessons. They didn’t seem to grasp the fact that a little high-tech hardware had delivered a lesson of its own that dark day in July. And that whatever might have been my previous level of disinterest in my teaching duties, thanks to science I had finally seen the light.

By Jim Hagarty
2016

Note to all serious junk collectors: Here is a sign you have the sickness bad.

You are parked at the far end of the second-hand store parking lot enjoying a coffee in your car. Your eye catches, in the distance, the store’s big green garbage bin. The lid is open. The bin is full. And sticking out atop that pile of refuse are four perfectly good plastic lawnchairs.

“What the hell?” you exclaim to no one.

Briefly, you consider driving over to the bin and loading those tan lovelies in your car. These are chairs someone didn’t want so they gave them to the second-hand store. And the second-hand store didn’t want them! But you want them.

Somewhere there is a hotline, or ought to be one. Sadly, you leave, remorsing over what might have been. Your quality of life will have to remain in the moderate position for another day. But take heart. There is always the local dump. You are still fond of the perfectly good bookshelf you retrieved from a bin there one day, right from under the massive sign: Absolutely No Scavenging Allowed. You assumed, maybe incorrectly, that what was meant was it was illegal to steal that sign. You even thought at the time, “I could use a sign like that.”

By Jim Hagarty
2016
Warning! I know a man. You might know him too. His name is Yuno Wattcha Shudoo. If you see him, avoid all contact. He is obnoxious, ignorant and potentially dangerous. But if you encounter Yurohn Hart in your travels, take her for a coffee. She’s the one with the answers.

By Jim Hagarty
1992

When you work in the same office day after day, year after year, you get to know your environment pretty well. You become familiar with practically every square inch of the place. You also, through daily observation, learn all the habits, idiosyncrasies and clothing styles of your fellow workers. They, in turn, are equally studied in the details of their environment of which you are a part.

Therefore, sneezing patterns, laughing fits, temper tantrums and annoying mannerisms all become extremely familiar to the observant office worker. And so, a change, no matter how slight, is instantly noticed, often commented on and sometimes, made a big deal of.

Over the years, no one in our office has taken greater notice of his surroundings than I. Why that is so, I am not sure, but fellow workers have often been made happily aware of my keen eye for observation. Rare is the person who has been able to sneak by my desk with a new shirt on or a fresh haircut, without my seeing the change right away. And offering a very generous compliment about it, I must say.

But this seemingly harmless habit has a downside to it. On those infrequent occasions when I sport some new piece of apparel to work or come in with a new haircut, my fellow workers are lined up to have their say about the change. This often makes me nervous about making any changes at all because their comments are rarely as kind as the ones I make when I notice the changes they’ve made. I have no idea why they act that way.

They were at their usual sharp-tongued selves last week when I wore a new sweater to work. It is a hand-knit, wool, sweater-coat, with a big collar and large wooden buttons up the front. It is warm and comfortable, if a little casual for the workplace.

“Hi Ward! How’s the Beav?” came the first comment from a staff photographer who shall remain nameless, referring, of course, to the sweater-clad father, Ward Cleaver on the old TV show, Leave It To Beaver.

“Hey, nice sweater!” commented a certain composing room worker who shall also remain anonymous. “Where’s your slippers?”

But worst of all was the slander spewed by a newsroom employee whom I shall also decline to name. “Charlie Farquharson called,” said the jealous journalist. “He wants his sweater back.” (Charlie was a folksy farmer TV character played by an actor in Canada at the time.)

There were other unflattering things said, most of them too painful for me to talk about here. Suffice it to say, it was the worst case of sweater abuse I’ve ever seen.

And, of course, I didn’t deserve a word of it.

Enough of this clothesism, I say.

Enough of this textile harassment.

Enough!

By Jim Hagarty
2018

I dropped off my son at work today at 9:30 a.m. and wished him a good day. Thursday is his busy day and I won’t see him again for 12 hours. Two week ago, I took my daughter back to her apartment in a city a three-hour drive away and said goodbye. “See you in three weeks,” she called out from her balcony.

Twelve hours? Three weeks?

I still can’t get used to this after all these years. There was a time when we were all together 24 hours a day. Now in their early 20s, we’ve had separations that have lasted as long as six weeks and they have spent time in some far-flung places.

I remember the first day I dropped them both off at nursery school. I was a stay-at-home dad and had been with them all day long, every day. As I walked away, I could hear through a window of the school my daughter screaming at the separation. I sat in my car and openly wept like I never had before. To punish myself even more, I slipped a Fred Penner tape of songs, their favourites, into the car stereo. Then the waterworks flowed without stopping.

But the tears were good and even then I was grateful for them. Finally, this cold, cold heart was melting. It’s been not much more than a puddle on the floor ever since.

By Jim Hagarty
2013
Retired boxer George Foreman has 12 children, and each of his five sons is named George: George Jr., George III, George IV, George V, and George VI. His four younger sons are distinguished from one another by the nicknames “Monk”, “Big Wheel”, “Red”, and “Little Joey.” One of his daughters is called Georgetta. I saw him interviewed on TV one time and he was asked why he named almost everybody George. He said, “You go 15 rounds in the ring with Muhammad Ali and see how many names you can remember.”

By Jim Hagarty
2006

Maybe your experience has been different from mine, but for some reason I cannot explain, I can’t get rid of my junk by holding garage sales. They obviously do the trick for other cluttermongers – some communities, in fact, pass bylaws limiting the number of yard sales a homeowner can have in a year because some are basically small businesses in disguise – but the few I’ve had have ended only in discouragement and embarrassment as I am continually forced to haul all the old stuff back into the garage.

It might be my prices. I’ll admit, greed gets the best of me and with visions of walking away with sagging pockets of silver dollars and two-dollar coins, I may be pricing myself out of the market. Maybe $10 is too much for a picture frame that cost $3 five years ago.

And presentation could be a problem. I kind of just spread everything around loosely on the grass, on the driveway, in cardboard boxes, on a couple of old tables. It may be that I need to hire a marketing guru or business coach to help me catch the eye of those hard-nosed bargain hunters out there.

But the biggest drawback, I can easily see, has to be with my timing. It appears as though you cannot straggle out of bed at 9 o’clock on Saturday morning and start pricing and hauling your stuff to the street after that. The real, professional garage sale junkies have already ransacked the town by then and have gone to wherever these people hang out between garage sales.

Which might be the crux of the problem. I guess I am a stranger in the yard sale subculture. If you get offended by people wandering through your garage offering you a buck for things they’ve been clearly told are not for sale, then yard peddling might not be the thing for you. And putting an ad in the paper saying, “No early birds, please” just seems to serve to attract them.

You also cannot have sensitive feelings to be a success in the garage-sale world. When someone thinks 25 cents is too much to pay for an old flute and tries to work you down to 15 cents, you simply can’t take it personally. Accept that you are talking to an alien, take their 15 cents and move on, and see if they ascend to some sort of Mother Ship after they leave.

In fact, if rudeness bothers you, don’t even think about exposing yourself to it by displaying the things you’ve been hoarding all these years. Your tender ears might be shocked at what you’ll hear.

But here’s the real rub. If everyone was as much a washout at this activity as you are, you might feel surrounded by compatriots. That, however, does not seem to be the case. A woman down the street announces proudly that she made $500 on her recent sale ($75 of which was yours as you now own a used kids’ pool table). And an old friend from another town says he recently hauled in $950 at a blowout lawn sale.

Give me a break!

Two summers ago, my son and I sat patiently watching people glance at – and walk by – our pile of what might euphemistically be called rubbish on their way to a neighbour’s place two doors down. The couple there were doing a booming business and we watched with bewilderment at how everything they had for sale, sold, including all the stuff on this big, long table. And then, when they were packing up, somebody came along and bought the table!

Last weekend, I put a few things out and amazingly, sold a couple of items. I leaned the bike I bought a few weeks ago for $10 up against a tree with a pricetag of $15 on it, hoping to launch a career as a capitalist. A woman pulled up in her car, got out and asked whether or not I’d take $10 for it as that is all she had on her. I said sure.

I also vowed never to do this again and have spent all week making deposits at the various charities around town as well as the dump where I probably should have been taking all this stuff all along. No one asks me impertinent questions at the dump.