Lifetime Sentences

By Jim Hagarty
2004

To the Editor:
I have read where the Supreme Court of Canada says it’s OK to spank children and I thought it was about time some sanity was brought to bear on the matter. However, I decided, instead, to write a letter to your newspaper.

First off, let me tell you that I have first-hand experience as both receiver and giver of corporal punishment so I think I am more than qualified to comment. Both my parents used to take turns flailing the living daylights out of me. Later on, my wife and I did the same to our eight brats as soon as we got the chance to get our hands on them.

I think the thing that is most often forgotten in any discussion of this issue is that children are born bad. Pure and simple. Lucifer’s got his fingerprints all over the little reprobates from the moment they arrive on the scene and it’s the job of us caring parents to raise ’em up good. Speaking for myself, I know I was one heck of a little devil and deserved every slap, punch, kick, body slam and strap I ever got. For example, sometimes I used to slouch at the supper table instead of sitting up straight like I should have. Other times, I wouldn’t fall asleep instantly when my head hit the pillow at night but would instead, giggle away with my brother in bed over some really bad thing such as whose body openings could emit the louder sound. Other times, I would sleep in on Sunday morning and not be ready for church on time.

When my kids came along, of course, they were just as bad as I had been and I had to whack ’em into shape too. Sometimes, for example, when I would tell one of them to go and get me a beer out of the fridge, all I might hear back is, “Why don’t you get it yourself’?” Well, I’d make good and sure that was the last time that child said that to me.

I haven’t seen any of my children for many years now, not since the funeral for my youngest girl, who, unfortunately, overdosed on pills. But if they were all here with me as I write this, I’m sure they’d say it was a good thing their mom and dad didn’t spare the rod. The guards at the penitentiary tell me my oldest boy is a model prisoner and very polite and I know the charges against his younger brother will be dropped some day soon. Two of my other children take their anti-depressants as they’re supposed to, not like some people I have known who keep going off their medication. The last time I was allowed to see Michael in the psychiatric hospital, the nurses told me he was a dear lad and didn’t cause anybody any trouble. They say that someday, he might even be able to recognize who I am again.

If I ever get the chance to meet any of my 11 grandchildren, I’ll bet they’ve been raised straight and true like their moms and dads and their step-moms and step-dads were. I am proud of all of my children, every last one of them. Even today, they work hard and do their best to battle their addictions to sex, gambling, work, booze and drugs. When they get into trouble, by gosh, the first thing they do is think about getting some help.

As I was telling my fourth wife the other day, a good beatin’ now and then never did me any harm. It taught me to respect my elders and when I grew up, it gave me a way to get respect from people who failed to behave the way I wanted them to. I know a good shaking or a slap or two used to work wonders for keeping my first three wives in line and after a while, I hardly had to do that any more. I’d just raise my fist and whatever the problem had been would go away, just like that.

I often tell my psychiatrist that I don’t know where I’d be today if my mom hadn’t found the courage to nail me across the face with her fly swatter or rolled up newspaper when I was getting too cheeky. I remember one time when she caught me staying up for the third period of the last game in the Stanley Cup playoffs; did I ever get it that night. But I deserved it. I knew what the rules were.

When I first went to jail, I would take everyone as I found them, but eventually, I got that I could tell which guys hadn’t been raised by parents who loved them enough to lay a hand on them now and then. These guys would whine around the clock and give the guards a hard time. They were always going on about their rights and demanding to see their lawyers. You never found me doing that; I took my lumps in jail just like I did when I was a boy and you wouldn’t catch me crying about it.

My probation officer and I often swap tales from our upbringing and it’s fun to watch his eyebrows arch up when I tell them stories from home like how Dad used to go at me with a hockey stick. In response, the officer would say silly things like how his dad, instead of beating him with a hockey stick, actually taught him how to use one. But when I listen to the lip on this guy, I’ll tell you; a few good thrashings wouldn’t have been wasted on him. He’s a candy ass, through and through. Gets me in a bear hug now and then and tells me he loves me. Drives me crazy.

The other night there was a guy in my anger-management class who told us all about how his dad actually broke his wrist with a shovel handle one day, to teach him a lesson. He had been caught looking at a girlie magazine, so he had it coming. I think we all agreed in that room that night that we’d all wished our dads would have loved us that much.

This fall, if the restraining order is lifted, I hope to be able to attend my son John’s graduation from high school. He’ll be the only male in my family going back three generations to get a high school diploma. Tell me that would have happened if I had molly-coddled him all those years.

Parents who aren’t willing to lay a hand or some other object on the backsides of their children actually hate their offspring. Take it from me. Sending a child out into the world without the memory of a couple dozen good wallopings from his parents is to send them out there totally defenceless.

But, I have to admit, it isn’t easy. All those beatings I laid on my kids hurt me a lot more than they ever hurt them. It was hard not to feel bad when they cried and screamed but I always found it was important to keep at it until they learned how to take it like a man. Even the girls. It’s worth the effort.

If my father hadn’t driven his car off that pier and he was sitting before me today, I’d tell him thanks for all he did for me. He taught me all I truly needed to know in life, including just what a bad person I was at heart. Thanks Dad.

Let’s put this matter to rest. Bring back the strap in school! Let parents correct their kids in the way they see fit. It is God’s plan and we can’t change God’s plan, can we?

Let’s not let the candy assers of society have their way. It’s a tough world out there. But hey! I survived. Spanking never hurt me one bit. If I take my medication, stay away from all mind-altering substances, obey all my parole conditions, abide by the restraining orders, stay off the Internet, and never pick up a gun, I’m fine. Where would I be today if I’d been allowed to run wild, eh?

Thank you Supreme Court judges!

Signed,

“Grouchy”

(real name withheld by request)

By Jim Hagarty
Renowned Terrible Limericker

A nice young woman from France
Shoved a frying pan down her pants.
She left the store
But returned for more.
No one gave her even a glance.

By Jim Hagarty
2016

I hate to be pessimistic, but it is getting to be an awful world out there. Bombings, torture, arson, assassinations. Environmental crimes. Hate crimes.

Our fellow humans are losing their minds and it is downright scary.

What is all this mayhem leading to?

This is what we can look forward to. A woman in Maryland stole three french fries and, incredibly, ate them. She ate them right in front of the man she had stolen them from.

But take heart. The woman was not only hungry and lacked any moral compass, she was stupid enough to steal them in a restaurant from a plate which belonged to a police officer. Wow!

Thank God, however, that the law moves decisively and quickly in our modern society. The officer arrested her right away and carted her off to jail where she belongs.

She has been charged with second-degree theft. On the arrest sheet, the fast-acting cop listed the items stolen as “French Fried Potato…quantity 3.”

Some might say this is too trivial an event for jail and a subsequent court appearance. Are you kidding me? Across the world, french fry theft is on the increase and out of control. Do you not read the news?

And if you think this is over the top, ask yourself this: Will french fry thieves stop at potatoes? Will they? No they won’t. Left unchecked, they’ll go on to nab onion rings, salad fixin’s, gravy containers. I hope this doesn’t sound like fear mongering, but sooner or later, they will drink your pop!

Good work Maryland police officer. In your honour, I am coining this new slogan:

“French Fries Matter.”

By Jim Hagarty
2016

I was raised on a farm and I love driving in the country on the back roads, listening to music and checking out the scenery.

I live in a small city and I am glad for that in so many ways. I can be in the country in less than five minutes.

But country boy or not, I could never live there again. I loved the farm, but I often found it to be a lonely place, in spite of the fact I had six brothers and sisters.

I much prefer town life to country life. I was just outside now in my backyard at 2 a.m. I could hear clanging and banging sounds coming from a factory somewhere. Some people might hate that; I like it. Although I am a loner, I like watching and hearing life going on all around me. Not the frantic life of a Toronto or Chicago, just the mostly peaceful sounds of a smaller built up area.

Those sounds are a source of comfort to me, telling me I am not alone.

By Jim Hagarty
2016

I drove into a nice shady spot at my favourtie fast food restaurant and opened my coffee, prepared for a nice 15-minute break.

A car pulled in beside me. Its driver got out and peeked inside my open passenger door window.

“Hey Bud. Mind looking after my car?” said the middle-age man, who, without hearing my answer, then walked away and into a nearby store.

I looked at his car. It was not a car that anybody needed to look after. In fact, I am going to guess that nobody had looked after it for a long time.

But now I was looking after it.

I had no information to illuminate the task I had been assigned, a job given to me casually by a stranger who offered me no option but to accept the challenge. Were the keys in the ignition? Was there a baby in a car seat in the back? A thousand dollars in gold coins lying on the seat?

Immediately, I imagined a horde of car wreckers lurking in the parking lot, waiting to launch a car invasion on the vehicle I was suddenly guarding. I went from relaxed coffee drinker to nervous car-watching pile of human misery in about 15 seconds. I didn’t know if I had what it would take to fight off a bunch of nasty auto vandals.

And here’s the thing. The car owner who had enlisted me in the serious business of protecting his mode of transportation, seemed to be in no hurry to return from the store. For all I knew, he worked there and had just started an eight-hour shift.

I finished my coffee and sat there. The car owner had found the one guy in this town who feels responsible for everything around him, 24 hours a day. I would have sat there for three full days watching that bucket of bolts simply because I had been put in charge.

Finally, after almost another complete half hour, I came to the logical conclusion that the car owner’s words to me must have been the last he ever spoke. He had obviously been either kidnapped or murdered upon entering the store. Now, I had to worry about his kidnappers/murderers emerging bloodthirsty from the store. Seeing me watching the guy’s car, they would probably toss a grenade, or at the very least a stinkbomb, through my open window.

Wisely, at last, I got the hell out of there.

I seem to attract these kinds of assignments. This morning, a neighbour came to my door. Nicest guy I know. He has done a lot for me and my family over the years. He had a request. A FedEx truck was delivering a package from Spain and he had to leave. He gave them my name and wondered if I would be home to accept the delivery.

I did have plans to not be home accepting FedEx packages from Spain, but here I am. Locked inside my home, staring out the window. My neighour drove away. I have no idea where he is. For all I know, he’s sitting in shorts and straw hat at a seaside outdoor cafe, sipping sasparillas or mint juleps, and contemplating how good life has been to him.

Either that or he is at the fast food restaurant, ransacking the car I had left unguarded there. Seems like that would be out of character for him but it is a crazy world. And I would like to know what it is he has ordered from Spain.

And you wonder why I am a wreck.

I feel almost like I am one of those marks in a Just For Laughs TV prank or a Candid Camera episode. Pretty soon I will be directed to look into the disguised camera that has been trained on me all along.

I will laugh uproariously.

Meanwhile, would you mind looking after this website for me? Hackers and such.

Thanks.

Now back to my mint julep.

By Jim Hagarty
1987

“Well, would you look at that!” I said in surprise to the woman behind the candy counter. “I didn’t know they still made creamy toffee bars.”

“Yes,” she said. “We sell quite a few of them.”

“Well, isn’t that something? You know, I haven’t had one of those in years,” I continued, reminiscently. “I was hooked on them in high school. Used to spend most of my lunch money on them.”

But, that was a long time ago and the taste of creamy toffee was only a pleasant memory now. I don’t know why I ever quit eating the smooth, sweet, caramel candy but I guess I just outgrew it. Kids will eat sweets morning, noon and night if they get the chance. But the bad habits of childhood fall away from the adult like leaves from a tree in autumn. Maturity brings balance, moderation and wisdom. Aging dogs walk around big puddles instead of splashing right through them and then shivering wet in the cold till they dry.

As fall approaches, however, it’s sometimes nice to go for one last swim at the lake so I put down 64 cents on the counter top and bought a creamy toffee bar. For old time’s sake.

It tasted as good as the first one I ever ate. I would be willing to argue with anyone on any day that creamy toffee contains the finest flavour of any food produced by any method from any substance.

Anywhere.

The next day, I was back at the store, laying another 64 cents on the counter. What the heck. Two last visits to the lake wouldn’t hurt. Might be a long, cold winter.

Little did I know I’d spend so much of my time from then on at the lake. Before long, I was up to two toffee bars a day. Every day.
Store clerks started commenting on the regularity of my toffee-bar purchases. I shrugged them off with a little joke or two. “Doctor says I’m suffering from a severe caramel deficiency,” I’d quip, with a weak laugh.

“Just buying this for a friend who’s hooked,” I’d say another time with a slight, oddly pathetic chuckle.

Twice a day, I was back at the store – once around noon and once after supper. For a while, I tried buying two at a time so I wouldn’t have to go to the store so often but I had to give that up when I started eating them two at a time.

One day, my store ran of toffee. I raced outside, jumped in my car and headed for another store. They don’t sell them. Back in the car, I speeded off to a third store. They sell them but they cost 70 cents. Lucky for me they don’t cost $70. I’d be a very poor man today.

Vowing I’d never suffer through a letdown like that again, I found suppliers in every part of the city – two in the east end, two in the west, and three downtown.

My main source downtown has been out of toffee for two weeks now. And my patience is wearing thin.

“They’ll be in next Thursday,” the woman behind the counter said. That was two Thursdays ago. The first week, I offered to drive down to the factory and pick them up. No need for that, I was told. Last Thursday, she and I went through the order sheet together just to make sure they were actually on their way.

Yesterday, the shelf still had a bare spot where the toffee used to be.

“Should have been here this morning,” she said. “I don’t know where the driver is.”

“Well shouldn’t you call the police, or something?” I asked. “Maybe his truck ran off the road.”

As with most addictions, the night becomes darkest before dawn. One night I skipped supper entirely and ate a toffee bar instead. Another night, I took one to bed with me and ate it there. I’ve also eaten them while taking a bath. Sometimes I eat them while I’m driving and I’m getting more and more sensitive when any one suggests I’m eating too many.

But I knew things were getting out of hand the day a fellow worker asked for some of my toffee.

“Get your own!” I told him, remorselessly. But then I relented, cut off half an atom and gave it to him.

Someday, I know, I’m going to have to quit. Meanwhile, I keep scanning the headlines, hoping some researcher doesn’t discover that too much toffee causes lapses of memory or dehydration, or something.
Which reminds me. I could use a drink awfully bad and I’d get one too if I could remember where I put that bottle of pop I bought.

(Update: Somehow, the toffee passion just ended one day. I don’t remember the circumstances now. But almost 20 years passed with no toffee bars. I moved on. Last summer, my daughter got a job at a local candy store. They make the best toffee bars ever. She started bringing them home to me. As I write, I am in need of an intervention. A good stern toffee talk with my loved ones.)