Month: December 2017

By Jim Hagarty
2013

The house is pretty quiet here every weekday. I am all alone. I don’t even have any music playing. I just sit at my desk bearing down intently on work I do on the computer.

At some point almost every day, I feel someone touch me on the upper back. SCREAM! There is nobody else here but me!

It’s Luigi, our cat, and he wants some food. He goes through his life quieter than a monk in a monastery but he touches me on the back when he is desperate. It wouldn’t occur to him to meow like other cats do. No, a gentle touch to take a few more days off my life is just what the doctor ordered, says Luigi.

I should know it’s coming but I am never prepared.

By Jim Hagarty
2001

Hi, my name is Jim and I am a recovered road rager.

This is my story.

My problem started 34 years ago when I was 16 and got my driver’s licence. Before then, I had had only minor attacks of RR, though signs that I would one day be afflicted by the disorder were already there, now that I look back on it. For example, I used to yell after cars that would spray me with stones as I rode my bike home from school along the gravel roads that led to my farmhouse. And later on I’d mutter and scowl at truckers that would come close to squashing me like a bug as I putt-putted one of my father’s old tractors along the shoulder of the road.

But these mild traffic tantrums were just a foreshadowing of the ranting and raving that would ensue once I was given that little green piece of paper that allowed me to guide gas-powered tanks of plastic, steel and glass up and down the highways of the world. How was I to know that sharing those thoroughfares with me would be some of the biggest jerks to ever strap on a seatbelt? I have been tailgated by tandem trucks, cut off by compact cars, held up by happy holidayers and petrified by pea-brained passers. I was once slammed into from behind by a driver too busy kissing his girlfriend to bother jamming on his brakes. Another time I was hit broadside by a woman who put on her blinker but just for fun, I guess, as she didn’t bother to make the turn she was indicating she would, so I pulled out in front of her (and was charged, a blinker having no legal status, the police said). Most recently, I was hit head on by a cab driver who pulled out to pass a parked car and didn’t see me there, so small and invisible was I in my full-sized, family lumberwagon.

So, my torment mounted over the years and I fought back. I used every imaginable inappropriate behaviour possible to display my dismay until I finally saw the light. I won’t go into details about how I carried on. But let’s just say that the normally meek and mild me could, at the honk of a horn or the sound of “Learn to drive, loser!”, instantly transform into a frenzied freeway Frankenstein, though I never took to brandishing a pistol or baseball bat as some of my colleagues do.

The good news in all of this, however, is that I have not had even close to one incident of RR in over five years. With any luck, I may never again give in to the urge to vent my bruised feelings while cruising along life’s highways.

Here, in nine simple steps, is how I overcame my affliction. Perhaps this will work for you too.

1. In a shopping mall parking lot, back your vehicle out, somewhat prematurely, perhaps, into the path of an oncoming car, forcing the driver to apply his brakes to avoid hitting you.

2. Look in your rear-view mirror to see the big guy behind you losing his mind and listen with blossoming anger as he honks his horn long and loud at you.

3. Flip up the forefinger of your left fist and hold your thus-saluting arm out the window of your car to acknowledge your appreciation of your fellow motorist’s concern over your driving skill level and the perceived deficiencies in it.

4. Watch in dismay as your new-found foe practically locks the front of his car onto the back of yours and prepares to follow you out of the parking lot in this two-ton tango.

5. Realize with growing panic that this demented maniac – obviously released just that day from a maximum-security prison – now intends to follow you in this fashion until you run of gas at which time he will then administer, on your head, a little road rage of his own.

6. Begin to shake uncontrollably and break into a cold sweat as your parking lot pal soon takes to pulling up beside you as you drive along and shaking his fist at you in a preview of how he intends to exact justice once he somehow gets a hold of you.

7. Realize forlornly you can’t go home as you’d rather not share your address with your suddenly acquired, not-so-silent stalker.

8. Head for the local police station and watch in relief as the tactic finally shakes your tormentor from your tail.

9. Wonder for three days after whether or not your own personal road warrior might suddenly appear again as you’re driving along somewhere and least expect to renew your acquaintanceship with him.

I’m cured.

Now, in the fashion of all who’ve suddenly changed their ways, I’d like to cure the rest of the world too.

I propose the opening of a boot camp for road ragers. Hire the guy who chased me around to chase them around. The only thing on the menu would be great spoonsful of YOM (Your Own Medicine). It tastes awful, but served up by the right physician, it’s been known to work wonders.

(Jim Hagarty is a freelance writer living and driving quietly in Stratford, Ontario, Canada.)

By Jim Hagarty
2013

The other night a friend showed me something that I didn’t know existed. It is an archival CD, made with gold and guaranteed to keep information safe for 300 years.

This to me is startling. How can anyone know this little gold disc will preserve music (in my friend’s case) for three centuries? How would anyone be able to test that? Three hundred years is a long time. Three hundred years ago there was no Canada, no United States of America. The Rolling Stones were touring but they were pretty much the only band out there.

Who is going to give my friend his money back if it fails in its 278th year?

But wouldn’t it be great to dig up one of these CDs from 300 years ago and be able to hear what people sounded like back then?

By Jim Hagarty
1992

As it is with most human mistakes, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Having just replied in detail for the fourth or fifth time to the oft-repeated, post-Dec. 25 question, “Well, was Santy Claus good to you this Christmas?”, I decided to see if I could spice up my reply by naming gifts I had never received. By substituting a little illusion in the place of reality, I could hang on to a wee bit of the privacy so hard to find any more in today’s world and satisfy my questioners at the same time. My enquirers and I would all emerge satisfied from our Christmas post-mortem sessions.

Not being accustomed to blatantly telling untruths to people in answer to straightforward questions, I found myself a little uncomfortable at the start. But after my first couple of outright lies, it got easier. It was almost fun.

For some reason, I can’t explain, I settled on a popular brand of personal cassette tape player as the main Christmas gift in my reply to my questioners.

“Well, was Santy Claus good to you this Christmas?” came the question from my first victim.

“Sure was,” I replied. “I got a personal portable tape player.”

“Good for you!” continued my co-worker. “Do you like it?”

“I love it,” I said, with sort of a straight face.

With practice, I improved. I began elaborating about how I loved the tiny stereo so much I almost hated to take off the earphones to go to bed. I also started working it in there that this was the best Christmas present I had ever received.

At some point, I even decided to stash another gift for myself under the tree.

“Great Christmas,” I’d reply. “I got a personal portable tape player and a dishwasher.”

A few eyebrows shot up at the news of my dishwasher present but nobody pressed for more information about it and I think my secret wasn’t blown. But I realized I had better stop there and not begin adding things to the list like a new mini-van or a summer cottage.

My deliberate falsehoods were going over well but I suspect there comes a moment of truth in the lives of most people who practise to deceive and mine came Monday morning.

“Well, didja have a good Christmas?” asked Frank, a fellow worker.

“Great, thanks,” I said.

“Get lots of presents?” he continued.

“Yeah, I did all right,” I said. “I got a personal portable stereo and a dishwasher. “

“A portable stereo, eh?” said Frank. “So did I.”

My face flushed.

“How do you like yours?” he asked.

“I, uh, I love it,” I said, timidly. “Listen to it all the time …”

“I was wondering,” he said. “You’ll know. Does it take regular cassette tapes or those miniature cassettes?”

Not being the proud owner of such a machine, I was in a corner, explaining details of the device to a man who does own one.

“Ah, just the regular ones,” I suggested.

“And, how do you turn on the tape?” Frank continued. “Do you flip a switch to ‘tape’ or something and press a button?”

“Ah, yes, ah, just flip the switch to ‘tape’ and press the ‘play’ button.”

“Thanks,” said Frank.

“No problem,” I answered, weakly.

I realize now, I’m not, at heart, a very good teller of lies. I get so nervous in all situations where my credibility’s on the line that I believe I’d fail a lie-detector test even if I was telling the truth. And in a court of law, though innocent, I’d be sure to jump to my feet at some point during the deliberations and yell, “I did it!”

For the record, Frank, I got clothes for Christmas. Two books. Two CDs. A pen. A calendar. After-shave lotion.

And a candy cane. A great, big candy cane.

Bigger ’n a personal portable stereo.

By Jim Hagarty
2015
Every Christmas I make individual calendars for each member of my family. On the back there is a space to include a few words. For our daughter Sarah, who will be leaving for university next fall, I used a line from an Emmylou Harris song, Love and Happiness: “Wear your ruby shoes, when you’re far away, so you’ll always stay, home in your heart.” The last present she opened today was a pair of ruby shoes. I didn’t know she was getting them. Neither did her mother know about the saying I used on Sarah’s calendar when she bought the shoes. As omens go, this is a pretty good one. Merry Christmas.

By Jim Hagarty
2012

So the laundry tub drain is plugged. Fill the stupid tub with hot water. Burn my hand reaching in to pull the plug. Nothing. Fifteen minutes to empty the tub. Get a wire hanger, stick it down the drain for a while. Nothing. Pour a whole gallon of vinegar down. Nothing. Rats. Will need to call plumber and will need to part with $100 at least.

Frustrated. Then I remember Google.

Run upstairs to laptop. Enter laundry tub drain blocked. Four million hits (seems like it, anyway.) First one: Fill tub one-third full then use toilet plunger to free drain which is probably blocked by lint. But make sure to block second open pipe where washing machine water enters. So, stick plug in top of pipe. Get plunger. Tharump! Plug blows right out of top of pipe. Water shoots down laundry tub drain like crazy. Can’t believe my eyes.

OMG I love the Internet sometimes. Sorry Butch (real name), my friendly plumber, but we both know you’ll get me another day.

By Jim Hagarty
2000

Today’s Practical Pointers For Panicking Parents focus on the task of injecting nourishment into the very young.

Feeding a baby solid food is not a job for the easily discouraged. It takes patience, persistence and above all, the ability to duck quickly.

Not many people there are who possess all these virtues but they are the kinds of strengths that will eventually develop in those committed to the task of filling an infant’s unfillable stomach. Faced with the grim alternative – hours of non-stop shrieks of agony – most parents decide to do a bit of overnight character building, something they’ve been putting off for the past few decades.

Patience, most of all, is the number one quality desired in a baby-feeder because mysteriously, at mealtime, things that couldn’t possibly be of interest to any human being, whether newborn or 90-year-old, suddenly become utterly fascinating.

The dangling thread from a loose button on Daddy’s 10-year-old faded cotton dress shirt with the rip in the breast pocket turns into THE MOST AMAZING THING when pureed prunes on a spoon are trying to force their way into a baby’s reluctant mouth. Following the inspection of the thread, there’s Daddy’s greying sideburns, the end of the strap holding the baby in the high chair, the inside of Daddy’s nose and the fly walking across the kitchen ceiling that must be closely examined. Failure, by the impatient parent, to wait out these delays in the action will bring about screaming fits, profuse spitting and even wetting of pants not to mention some very bad behaviour on the baby’s part too.

Like a golfer carefully studying the lay of the land approaching
the green before making his all-important chip shot, a baby-feeder must not rush into the situation, poking an overflowing spoon in the direction of the central opening on the infant’s face. There are questions that need to be asked and answered. Is the mouth clamped shut tighter than the hatch on a nuclear submarine? Have the child’s eyes caught sight of the goo he’s being expected to accept into his gob? Are the baby’s lips pursed in a sort of pre-launch position, signalling that anything which dares to land on them will soon be shooting that fly off the ceiling?

If any of these conditions exist, of course, there is only one possible solution: GET OUT OF THE HOUSE! If this is not possible, then the only thing the anxious parent can do is resort to methods of distraction, such as calling the baby’s attention to things that don’t really exist. “Is that Momma I hear comin’ up the steps?” Dad might enquire in a hopeful tone, though, at the moment, Momma’s far away at Discount Don’s Giant Truckload Diaper Sale trying to work out a deal to trade the hatchback for a few more weeks’ worth of lifesaving baby pooper scoopers. When the baby turns quickly in the direction of the phantom Momma, mouth agape at the prospect of seeing someone who isn’t trying to force unpleasant glop into him, the successful baby-feeder will plunge the spoon in and out of that opening faster than a wiley mouse grabbing cheese from a set trap.

And this is where persistence pays off. Where Daddy might be able to wolf down a four-course meal during the two-minute commercial between Ain’t Life a Hoot? and the Six O’Clock International Round The Globe World Report, Baby is in no such hurry to see lovely footage of the 47 victims of the latest bus bombing in some insane country on the other side of the planet. On the contrary, his schedule till bedtime is simple: 1. Play with ball; 2. Play with ball; 3. Play with ball. So you can see, he simply doesn’t understand what the rush is all about.

A baby will eat, eventually, with special emphasis on the eventual part. One night, he may give up the stalling tactics after two minutes, the next night, after 10.

But sooner or later, the impenetrable stockade known as Fort Baby will fall, so long as the siege of the overflowing spoon isn’t commenced before its time.

However, on those rare occasions when, for whatever mysterious baby reasons, the drawbridge fails to lower, this is the only option for the bewildered parent: DUCK, FOR THE LOVE OF MIKE, DUCK!!! Because trying to stuff food into an unwilling baby is like trying to change the blade on a lawnmower while its running. Somebody’s going to get hurt and it won’t be the miniature gaffer strapped, appropriately, like a dangerous offender, in his little padded high chair.

When the pears start ricocheting off your ear lobes and you can’t breathe for the barley mash caking over your nostrils, it’s time to move on to the next agenda item.

Play with ball.