Beware the Termite Baby

By Jim Hagarty
1988

As an editor at a daily newspaper in a small, Southwestern Ontario city in Canada, I have long wondered if most of the really exciting stories that are taking place in this big, wide world are passing me by. While I’m writing headlines to go on the tops of articles about landfill sites, 90th birthdays, plowing matches and town council meetings, are other journalists out there having a more rip-roaring time of it? Are they getting to handle stories they can really sink their teeth into?

Apparently, they are.

While waiting in a grocery store checkout line recently, I noticed this huge headline calling out to me from the front page of a paper in the newstand: Termite baby eats mom out of home. An accompanying headline, in smaller type, clarified: He crunched crib to sawdust.

“Oh my gosh,” I thought. “I hope he’s not headed this way.”

Grabbing the paper from the rack, I flipped to page 27 and there, staring out from a black and white photo with an evil grin on his infant face, was 18-month-old Erwin Edsten, displaying a set of molars, incisors and bicuspids so big and sharp they belong in a sawmill, not a baby’s mouth. Fascinated, and a little frightened, I started reading.

“Looking tiny and tender, a soft, cuddly infant suddenly turns into a monstrous eating machine as he crawls from room to room devouring everything in sight. Not even furniture is safe from the jaws of this hungry horror.”

Poor Erwin, it seems, was born with a full set of teeth and an appetite as big as a forest and he’s been chomping ever since. He eats chairs, tables, floors, walls, clothing, pencils, paper, cushions and even mattresses. His latest meal was his own crib.

“Erwin eats nothing but wood and cloth,” his mother is quoted as saying. “We try to feed him regular food but he spits it out.”

“Now when,” I asked myself, “was the last time a real good story like that crossed my desk?”

A little dejected, I bought the paper and took it home. At 79 cents, the publication turned out to be a real bargain. It was jam-packed with amazing news.

Talking parrot predicts quakes and tornadoes, reads one headline and beside it is a picture of Ernie, the psychic bird.

“The first few times Ernie kept yammering about earthquakes and fires and whatnot,” says his owner, “I didn’t pay any attention.” But, now she does and she’s living proof of Ernie’s powers because in the years she’s had him, Mariatt De Bouville has never been hurt in an earthquake, a fire or a whatnot. So there you go.

It’s vasectomy or jail for dad of 42 kids, says a headline on page 6.

“Because his huge family is draining the town’s welfare funds dry, authorities have ordered Hans Heinz to submit to sterilization – or he’ll be facing a jail sentence for contempt of court.

The reporter gives both sides of the story:

“God gave me a talent and I’m making full use of it,” says Hans, who hasn’t held a job in years. “And who knows? It may be one of my kids who discovers a cure for cancer.” But one town commissioners fed up: “At least if he goes to jail, it’ll keep him away from his girlfriends.”

Man meets female self through dating service.

Victim of a split personality, the male side of this fellow Harvey gets matched up with his female side. But the story’s incomplete. What is left unanswered is, who pays for supper and movie when they go out?

Foot-long cockroaches terrorize renters.

In search of foot-long hotdogs, no doubt, the mutant insects escaped from a lab. “A horde of them attacked my cat and nearly killed it,” complains one renter. Foot-long or not, I’d like to see them attack my cat.

Docs cut giant down to size.

Once 7-foot-6, he’s now 6-foot-2. I didn’t read the story but I can imagine how they did it. They probably threw a few foot-long cochroaches in his bed when he was sleeping. Or got him to put on some wooden shoes and babysit little Erwin for an hour or two.

Dog saves owner by using CPR.

Riff the dog’s a real hero now. “He licked the man’s face and then started jumping on him,” a witness claims.

That did it. I was hooked. This week, I saw the latest edition of the paper. I wasn’t disappointed. Baby born holding its five-inch twin, announced the main headline, and above it: Lightning bolt splits man into male and female. I wasn’t long getting my 79 cents down on the counter, let me tell you.

Wrinkle cream causes model to grow beard and mustache.

“My face is my fortune,” Lisa moans. “And right now, my face isn’t worth much.”

Woman told she must cut vocal cords of 21 pet dogs.

Neighbours complained about too much barking. Surprise, surprise. I say, get Riff to teach ’em all CPR.

Phony doc jailed for operating on 248 patients. If he’d operated on only 247, he’d have been all right.

Stranded man eats own leg to stay alive. Lost in the desert, downed pilot Peter Lind dined on his own drumstick.

This paper has everything. Farm news: Cows trained to act as bodyguards for lambs, and $1,000 found in cow’s stomach. Marital advice: How to gag a nag. You can shut mate up forever. Supernatural research: Man captures friendly ghost in hot wax, and Phony pyschic trapped in her own crystal ball. And crime news: Chimp dressed as midget robs bank.

Then there’s the story about the woman who bit off another woman’s nose and spit it on the floor, the man who’s selling land on the moon for $5 an acre (the landscaping’s extra) and the man who is hooked on laughing gas and is not amused. Well, he is. Sort of.

Sigh. Those big-time reporters. They have all the fun. If I could just once meet little Erwin, feed him a table leg or two. Or watch Riff the dog perform mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

But I won’t. You just watch. I’ll be writing up 90th birthdays till I celebrate my own.

Ridin’ in Style

By Jim Hagarty
Renowned Terrible Limericker

There was a young man from Texas
Who drove a brand new Lexus.
He didn’t have money,
It seemed rather funny.
He got it just to perplex us.

The Empty Nest

By Jim Hagarty
2016

Two birds met in flight one day
And settled down in a tree.
They listened to ancient instincts
And made a nest as fine as could be.

And soon their work was rewarded
As two little birdies arrived.
And they set about to raise them
And the family prospered and thrived.

The days seemed long, like they wouldn’t end,
And they sang out their joy from their bough.
But the birdies flew as was known they would
And the two birds are alone again now.

The nest is empty and lonesome too
But oh, what a nest it has been.
And the birds have each other for company still
And are happy with now as with then.

Keeping Too High a Profile

By Jim Hagarty
2016

I have done some stupid things in my life.

Remember streaking in the 1970s? Several freshmen at the college I attended back then were the first anywhere to streak. I wasn’t among them.

At least, not that time.

Because this was such a new phenomenon, the skinny running guys mentioned above gained a lot of publicity for their stunt. Maybe it was the thought of all that fame that intrigued me.

Other dumb things over the years I accomplished fully clothed.

But here is something I have never done. Every time there has been a wanted poster circulated with my photo on it, I have kept a very low profile till things have blown over. And if I had been in a position to advise Mack Yearwood, I could have saved him some grief.

But old Mack went ahead without the benefit of my accumulated wisdom and posted his very own wanted poster as his profile picture on his Facebook page.

It didn’t take Florida cops very long to find Mack’s unfortunate posting and after reading through his Facebook information, they gathered all they needed to scoot on over and arrest the unwise lawbreaker who had been on the run for 11 months.

Police issued this warning after making the arrest.

“If you are wanted by the police, it’s probably not a good idea to use the ‘Wanted of the Week’ poster of yourself as your profile pic,” the department posted online the following day.

The police showed up at Mack’s brother’s home where they found the culprit and, to add insult to injury, a bag of marijuana fell out of his pants during the arrest. A new charge involving the weed has been added to the numerous other charges the 42-year-old social media fan faces.

This was where he made another critical mistake. If he had been streaking at the time, he would have had no pants for a bag of weed to fall out of.

At least that has been my experience.

Sunday in Old Order Country

DSC_0024_thumb

By Jim Hagarty
My friend and fellow blogger Al Bossence (thebayfieldbunch.com) was out and about this morning when he followed buggy tracks in the road to a farm where Old Order Mennonites were gathered in a barn for their Sunday services. He took other images of the farm at the same time. The farm is located in Huron County in southwestern Ontario, Canada. Al described the singing coming from the barn as “angelic.”

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Dock of the Bay

Another great photo by blogger Al Bossence (thebayfieldbunch.com) taken near his home in southern Ontario, Canada.

The Food Finder

By Jim Hagarty
Renowned Terrible Limericker

I once had a dog named Butt.
He was a very intelligent mutt.
He knew every which way
To get, day to day,
Lots of food to fill his big gut.

The Purse Strings

By Jim Hagarty
2008

A man can count his burdens, I think, by the amount of stuff in his pockets.

Check the pockets of any carefree kids – there won’t be much there. A quarter or two, if that. Maybe some gum. A favourite stone. Or a marble. Kids travel lightly through life and so they should.

This could make for one of those good old Irish sayings: May you be heavy with blessings and light in your pockets.

Sadly, a kid’s pockets inevitably begin to fill up. Maybe with a wallet a kindly aunt bestowed on him at Christmas. A little flashlight. A jackknife. An MP3 player. Traveling a bit heavier, now, but at least most of his baggage still falls in the fun category.

The trouble really starts with that first-ever key. The arrival of a bit of autonomy but also of responsibility. That house key, perhaps, begins to attract others – car keys, keys to work, and even keys to other doors in the same house. Maybe even the housekey from a trustful neighbour with a dog to walk as a favour now and then.

Over the years, I got by fairly well under this system, managing to keep a not-too-bloated wallet and a moderately loaded keychain. The wallet went into the left pocket of my jacket, the keys in the right.

Simple.

Enter the cellphone. Like a houseguest joyfully welcomed on arrival but who then wouldn’t leave, the phone messed with the wallet-keychain balance, and I’ve never really recovered. Then there were other, work-related items. A small digital recorder. With back up batteries. Then a small notebook. And pen. A small digital camera. And backup batteries.

Then, of all things, a “thumb” drive – a small device onto which computer files can be loaded at work and carried home and vice versa.

Leaving home or leaving work, I began to look like a busker, juggling almost a dozen items at once and generally dropping one or two or leaving some behind. (OK, not a very good busker.)

This is how, last week, I ended up in a store searching for something in which to carry all my burdens. Something not too large. Perhaps with a strap and several small, zippered pockets. Soft, imitation leather would be good.

Suddenly, there it was. Calling out to me, it seemed. It also seemed as though my whole life had been leading me to this point. My joy was complete, marred hardly at all by the fact that this little black beauty was in a section under a sign designating the articles there as PURSES.

purse

I have known men who have carried purses and I make no judgment on them. I just didn’t think I would ever count myself among their number.

For years, my spouse has arrived home with new purses and excitedly shown me all the wonderful features of her latest find. I admit, I’ve not been overwhelmed.

But there I was last Thursday night, showing my family the incredible traits of the treasure I had dug up for $6.99.

What I got for my troubles was laughter. Extreme laughter, to be exact. Referring to it, as I did, as my “man purse” or even as my “MP” did little to lessen the mirth.

Apparently, what did me in, was when I demonstrated how, by weaving my belt through a small strap, my purse can transform into a “fanny pak”.

Evidently, no two words serve as proof that a person has passed into that class of people known as “old” than these: Fanny Pak.

Carry it as a purse, my wife and I have more in common than we used to. Transform it into a fanny pak, I’m incurably old.

Laugh as they might and chuckle as they did, my kids, I think, secretly believe their Dad is just a little cooler than he used to be.

But whether or not they are proud of me or embarrassed, it doesn’t matter much to me.

I really think I have wanted to carry a purse pretty much my whole life.