Month: March 2017

By Jim Hagarty
2014

I can’t say with any certainty what happiness is. It’s been said that happiness isn’t so much experienced in the present moment as it is remembered as in, that was the happiest day of my life.

But, I am familiar with contentment, the first cousin of happiness. It is not a 24-hour-a-day feeling, but I enjoy it every day and I’m grateful for it. I feel it most in the evenings. Couch, TV, laptop, books, magazine, dog, cat or two, maybe some chips or popcorn. But one big ingredient: lamps.

I love lamps and in a home, am not too fussy about overhead lighting. Nice soft lamplight in the evening makes the most ordinary of living rooms cozy and charming. Almost Old World. Like the old farm cottages with their stone hearths or the castles with their oil lamps everywhere. It is the shadows that create the feeling as much as the light. A night with no lamps and nice lampshades doesn’t hold as much calm for me as one that has those things.

That is why I loved my local bank. A few years ago, it decided to change its business plan and instead of being so clinical, it changed its atmosphere to homey. Nice big easy chairs showed up for those who were waiting. There were numerous copies of daily newspapers about. And at every teller’s wicket, there was a small accent lamp with a nice, tan shade. The lamps were always lit, 24 hours a day and yes, that is not environmentally friendly. But when I walked up to a teller I always felt good. When I went to get cash from the ATM at night, sometimes, it made me feel good to see the lamps on in the closed office.

That is why, a few weeks ago, I was upset to see the lamps had disappeared. I went up to a teller that day and looked all around. Seeing that a special promotion was going on and there were signs and other paraphernalia all around, everywhere, I figured the lamps would come back out when the promotion ended. But they didn’t.

The other day, I stopped a bank manager on her way out of the building and asked her if the lamps would be back. “No,” she said with relief. “They were just a bunch of dust-collecting nuisances.” How differently two people can see a thing.

I went to the ATM on Thursday night. A lot of overhead lights on in the bank. No employees as the office was closed. It could have been an operating room.

This could be a definition of how you know you might be a little bit too sentimental: When you stop a bank manager to ask what happened to the lamps. If the bank closed for good I’d get over it faster than I will the missing lamps.

The little things often affect my contentment more than the big things. Things like lamps can light up my life or create a darkness when they go out.

How many bank managers does it take to change a light bulb?

One too many.

By Jim Hagarty
2014

A young man I know, not yet 20, came to my door yesterday.

I opened the door, but didn’t invite him and his friend in, just stood in the doorway and chatted.

Then he held up a set of keys and pointed towards his new truck in the parking lot next door. I looked out at it. “Brand new?” I asked. It was a 2011, but what a honey. Cherry red, a big beauty of a machine, one of Detroit’s finest.

I asked him a couple of friendly questions about it and he was on his way. I closed the door and went back to my computer. Even as I did, it hit me that I had missed a chance you don’t get too often.

I should have gone out to the truck, had a good long look at it and asked for a ride. A hardworking farm boy so proud of his new truck it was almost as though he had built it himself, he was showing it to everyone, even the Dad of one of his friends. It wasn’t the reason he came to my door, but he showed me the truck nonetheless and told me about it.

Before I sat back down, I thought that maybe I could still run out and catch him but it would be too late and too obvious what I was doing. No do overs on something like that. Maybe next time I see him…

It wouldn’t be as though I was being phony. I love trucks. What country boy doesn’t?

Young people need encouragement and validation that what they do and who they are matters.

All I have to do is remember the times in my youth when a sincere pat on the back from someone I maybe hadn’t expected one from, made all the difference.

Part way through my journalism career, when I was writing a weekly humour column for our daily newspaper, I was sitting with my wife in a movie theatre, waiting for the show to start. A woman sitting behind me tapped me on the shoulder and asked, “Are you Jim Hagarty?” I confirmed my identity.

“I keep a scrapbook of all your columns,” she said. I really enjoyed the movie that night and my columns, however good they had been up to that moment, were noticeably better after that.

Around that time, I was in line in a coffee shop when I saw a column I had written about coffee drinking taped to the cash register for all to see.

For me, this all goes back to one thing: The basic need every human being has to be loved. To count. To matter.

So if you see me riding around town as a passenger in a shiny red truck some day, you will know I took my own advice.

For once.

By Jim Hagarty
2017

I have shot a gun before, but always a long gun, never a pistol. The dozens of times or so I pulled the trigger growing up on the farm were a complete success in the sense that I did not shoot myself in the genitals even one time. If I had, I might remember such an occurrence, but I am pretty sure I didn’t.

And yet, there are men walking (limping?) around in this world who have done exactly that. Take this middle-aged brainiac in South Dakota, for example. He stuffed a loaded pistol in his pants one recent night. I am not an expert, but to me, this would be similar to having to have a bowel movement in the woods and deciding to squat right over a bear trap.

In any case, our hero’s gun went off somehow and the bullet lodged in his penis. That is some bad luck. But what is a fine upstanding man of the community to do to explain his unfortunate accident? He could hardly go around town known as the man who shot his own penis. Now could he?

So he did the next logical thing. Naturally, he told police that he was shot by a “black guy” who tried to rob him. This made sense as black guys always make it a point to shoot men in the penis when they are robbing them. You and I have read so many stories about that.

When the injured man showed up at an emergency room to be treated, police asked him how a bullet happened to strike him in the crotch, and our gunslinger – who is white – showed that he has some talent as a storyteller and might want to pursue that when everything heals and he can sit in a chair again.

The man told police he had been putting out the trash at a dumpster outside his apartment when the robber shot him during an attempted mugging. Police went to the dumpster and found no evidence of a shooting. They started to doubt his account of an African American gunman staking out dumpsters after midnight to rob people.

However, they did find a witness who said he heard a lot of screaming coming from the man’s apartment that night. Obviously, the mugger must have broken into his apartment.

As for me, I am just glad it is almost impossible to stick a .22 calibre rifle down your pants. Or I might walk with a limp too.

By Jim Hagarty
2017

A man stands alone in front of City Hall. He has an IQ of 100. He contemplates the scene peacefully, thoughtfully.

A second man joins him and they discuss their similar views. Each man`s IQ is 95. They begin to grumble.

A third man walks up, joins the first two in the discussion and agrees with them. Each of the three has an IQ of 90 and they raise their voices.

Three more men get out of a car and go up to the first three, happy to find they all share the same viewpoint. The IQ of each man in the group of six is 80. From one of them, a shout is heard.

Before long, a bus pulls up, and 40 men descend the steps, all of them in agreement with the first six. The IQ of each of the 46 is now 70. The single shout is joined by several more.

Four more buses soon pull up behind the first one and from those vehicles, 160 more men join the crowd. They all discuss the situation and before long, the IQ of each man in attendance is 60. A loud chant is raised.

Eight buses soon follow, bringing along 320 men who all agree with the first 206. The IQ of each man in the assembled throng of 526 is now 50, the upper level of an intelligence category assigned to an imbecile, also known as an idiot.

And a riot breaks out.

Led by the man who had, so recently, been standing there alone.

By Jim Hagarty
2012

In the early ’70s a group of young guys from my hometown in Canada discovered a way to get a few thrills that still has me scratching my head. They would drive a friend’s convertible onto the railroad tracks in town, let some air out of the tires and go for a happy little ride. The wheel rims would hug the rails so they didn’t have to worry about steering. Just keep a little pressure on the gas pedal and they were good to go.

This band of merry misfits would sit in the car and on the car trunk and hood, have a beer or two, and, on occasion, use a gun to scare a few groundhogs and rabbits. They knew when the trains normally ran on that line so they weren’t concerned about a sudden shock. When they got to another town a few miles up the line, they would all jump out, lift the front end of the vehicle so the car could be driven off the tracks, re-inflate the tires just enough to get them to a gas station, and off they’d go.

I don’t know how many times they did this but they came to get me one night to go along. Fortunately I was sleeping (at a table in the pub) so they let me be. As remarkable as this might sound, the craziest part of the whole adventure was when the car had to go over a railroad bridge which crossed a river. It was a long way from the bridge to the water. Now this wouldn’t have mattered if the car always stayed on the tracks. But once in a while, when they were putting along, it would get a bit dislodged and the guys would all have to jump out and lift it back on the rails. This was fine when they were going along on solid ground but if it had happened on the bridge, who knows what the result might have been as there was no place for them to jump except into the river. It freaked out the guys enough that some of them would scream as they went over the bridge.

Apparently, at the incredible sight of this carload of caterwauling young bucks crossing a railroad bridge in an old convertible, motorists would pull their cars over to the side of the road to watch in wonder. No cellphones in those days so the police didn’t get any tips in time to respond. I don’t know, in fact, if the guys ever got into trouble with the law, though they surely would have if caught. What I do know is that if I had been in that car, the loudest screamer would have been me and no cellphones would have been needed to alert the authorities.

But the chances of my being in that scary railroad car were very low. When I was a kid, I heard a very wise slogan that helps to explain why I am still walking around at 61: I’d rather be a live chicken than a dead duck!

By Jim Hagarty
2017

I have stood on the banks of Loch Ness. On a trip to Scotland, I walked around the famous lake, peering out over the still waters, and looking for a monster to raise its wobbly head. It never showed, so after an hour or so, I gave up and came home to Canada.

What a wimp I was. I should have known it would take more than an hour to find it. I should have tried harder, I now know.

But I do not have the courage and determination of Steve Feltham, a man who gave up his girlfriend, his job, and even his house, to find the prehistoric creature that glides beneath the surface of the pond. Steve believed he could solve the mystery of the famed sea creature and has spent 24 years trying to do just that.

Alas (ever notice most stories like this have at least one “alas” in them?), Steve and I had exactly the same amount of luck in finding “Nessie”. The difference is, I spent one hour, while he spent 210,240 hours.

The good news is, however, that at least Steve has come up with a theory and it’s a good one. He suspects that the leftover dinosaur that Nessie is thought to be is merely a Wels catfish. Steve spent nearly a quarter century camping by the banks of Scotland’s River Ness and now believes the dark waters are home to a Wels catfish, a type of fish known to grow up to 13 feet long.

“I have to be honest. I just don’t think that Nessie is a prehistoric monster. What a lot of people have reported seeing would fit in with the description of the catfish with its long curved back,” Steve told a reporter.

It is expected that Steve’s well-researched conclusions will not stop the thousands of tourists that visit the site every year, with the belief that there is indeed a monster lurking in the dark watered lake. He certainly isn’t the first to attempt tracking down the monstrous creature. There have been countless attempts since the first written record that relates to the Irish monk St. Columba, who, after being banished to Scotland for some infraction in his home country, is believed, in 565, to have banished a gigantic “water beast” to the depths of the River Ness after it killed one of his men and attacked another.

In the past 20 years, there have been various scientific searches of the lake using sonar beams and satellite tracking and no trace of Nessie has been found. A famous photo of the monster has even been revealed to have been faked.

But if you were Steve Feltham, what would you be expected to say after wasting 24 years of your life? You would say you don’t regret even a minute of it, of course you would. I would too.

“The monster mystery will last forever and will continue to attract people here, monster or not. I certainly don’t regret the last 24 years.”

Good for Steve. Who needs a girlfriend, a job and a house, anyway?

A psychiatric evaluation, maybe, but the other stuff?

No biggie.

P.S. I live about a half-hour’s drive in Canada from a little settlement called St. Columban, a bit of a coincidence, I would say. Maybe the Universe was calling out to me after all and I missed the mission it was trying to give me. Maybe it’s time I picked up where Steve left off. Stay tuned.

By Jim Hagarty
2017

Free small coffees at our local McDonald’s all week this week. Guess where I have been spending my time. Fortunately, the takeout window is open 24 hours a day as that is also the number of hours in a day I am awake this week. It’s nice when things coincide like that. I don’t know if I am suffering from coffee nerves yet, but I was out in my backyard at 4 a.m. today screaming at the moon for making too much noise, so maybe.

By Jim Hagarty
Renowned Terrible Limericker

I once had an ant named Kirk
That I used to take with me to work.
But he always got bored,
Fell asleep and then snored.
He turned into a wee little jerk.

By Jim Hagarty
2013

I was seven years old before we got our first TV. Imagine that. No TV. I sat and stared at the wall for seven years, waiting for something interesting to appear and finally it did.

But the real entertainment in our farmhouse during that pre-boob-tube time was supplied by the radio. To this day, I am still a radio guy.

One day back then, when I got to be a pre-teen, the clouds parted and God said: “Jim. The world needs one more deejay and you’re it.” My Mom wanted me to be a priest (in fact, to drive the point home, subliminally, she used to call me Father Jim – no kidding) but God preferred a deejay so what was I to do? How could I ignore this true calling?

So, I had to practise. We had a record player in the parlour – we could have hung meat in there, it was so cold and never used – and about five singles: Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, Brenda Lee and a couple others. Maybe an album or two. So, I figured out a way to get this done.

I put the portable record player on the floor and pulled it over right next to the hot air register. Then I ordered – er, asked politely – my younger sister and brother to go to registers in the upstairs bedrooms, lie on the floor and put one of their ears right on the grate. Then, in my best ’60s deejay voice – all loud and booming and full of high and low registers (ironic, eh?) – I announced the next number.

“And now, here’s a song by that great singer, Buddy Holly, called Raining in My Heart.”

At that very moment, I would lower the needle onto the record and my delighted audience lying on the floor upstairs would have the benefit of hearing the broadcast being supplied by Buddy and I and the oil furnace. It was a miracle of modern technology.

Once in a while, my audience tried to rebel and go outside and skip rope or throw stones but the show must go on and I was a tough station manager. I can’t understand it, but they both have an aversion to hot-air registers to this day.

But Buddy and I are still pals and split us up? Ha!

That’ll Be the Day!

P.S.
For the “record”, my deejay career, tragically, never came about, a loss for radio listeners everywhere. The closest I came were some radio interviews I did across Canada back when I was making records in the early ’80s. Not the same but a thrill, nonetheless. I am still awaiting word from the Vatican on my application for the priesthood.