Author: Jim Hagarty

My name is Jim. Actually, James. Things were kept simple in my day so my Dad’s name was Jim too. Just for fun, I have a middle name, Joseph. And a third, Catholic confirmation name, Patrick. So, if you are in a hurry, I am Jimmy Joe Pat.

But I was named in the boring old 1950s, before rock ‘n’ roll and strolls on the moon. Was I to be named today, who knows what my parents might have come up with?

In the United States, in 2017, name choices for babies were pretty wild. Some might say crazy. But at least no judge stepped in to stop any names that I am aware of. Years ago, somewhere in the southern states, a judge forbid a couple, huge Disney fans, from naming their kid Zippidy Do. Their last name was Daub. So, they named their baby Zip.

Here are some of the names that were bestowed on U.S. kids last year.

Tesla (130 girls, 11 boys); Fanta (24 girls); Beretta (21 girls); Maybelline (20 girls) Evian (10 boys). Sports minded parents named 12 girls and six boys Espn. The name Denim was given to 141 boys and 53 girls; five boys were named Suede.

Some spiritually minded parents chose: Halo (149 girls, 25 boys); Om (96 boys); Amen (75 boys, 55 girls); Calvary (16 girls, seven boys); Lucifer (24 boys); Getsemani (11 girls); Yogi (six boys). Yes, 24 boys will soon be walking around having people call them Lucifer. My guess is they will be little devils.

Let’s speed this up: Kaiser; Caesar; Pharaoh; Empress; Emperor; Heiress; Milady; General; Czarina; Czar; Duchess; Sirprince.

And if you are into nature: Koi; Lemon; Alp; Maize; Fennec.

Then there are the attitudes:Vanity; Envy; Brazen; Riot; Havoc; Shooter; Arson; Yoyo; Furious; Slayer.

And for history buffs: Cleopatra; Jezebel; JesseJames; Cuauhtemoc; Attila; Stalin; Casanova; Charlemagne; Capone; Godiva; Osama; Adolph.

Mythology: Eros; Ra; Beowulf; Isis.

Enough with the plain names. Let’s get a little crazy. Last year, 21 boys were named I-am, 19 girls were named Nil, 28 boys were called Boy; six boys were called Son; 19 girls were legally named Girl; eight boys were named Babyboy; seven girls were called Babygirl; 18 boys were named Mister; 16 girls were called Paw, 13 girls were called Man, 11 girls were named My, nine boys were called Papa, eight boys were named God, seven girls and six boys were named Moo, six girls were called Abcde, and six girls were named Any.

Okay, I’ll just vomit up the rest of the names that were given to 410 boys and girls in the U.S. in 2017: Artreyu; Nubia; Jetson; Savvy; Mazikeen; Zorawar; Aerabella; Porfirio; Candelaria; Bereket; Calcifer; Solaris; Eureka; and Aesop.

This is Jimmy Joe Pat, gratefully signing off.

©2018 Jim Hagarty

Sometimes you are right about people. Sometimes, you’re not.

I was heading for the coffee shop this afternoon and while I left my house in a good mood, I was a cranky old fart when I reached the drivethrough, thanks to three idiot motorists who fried my bacon to a crisp on my way there.

I placed my order, then motioned the car beside me to go ahead of me as it was an open question which of us was next. To add to my misery, the woman in the car ahead of me brandished a bold bumper sticker that announced she was not a very nice person. Why anyone would willingly drive around telling the world you suck is a question I am unable to answer.

I looked for evidence that she was, in fact, the jerk she wanted everyone to know she is, and wasn’t long in gathering my incriminating fact. The server at the window handed her a coffee. She gave it right back and was soon given a larger drink. Crabby is as crabby does.

However, I was soon to discover there was a reason she handed back the coffee.

It was the cup I had ordered.

When I got to the window, I was handed my back-and-forth coffee by a smiling young server who didn’t want any money for it.

“The woman in the car ahead of you paid for it,” she smiled. I flashed my lights at the disappearing car ahead of me to say thanks.

Anyone who buys me a coffee, in my books, is an angel.

That woman needs a new bumper sticker.

For Heaven’s sake.

©2024 Jim Hagarty

When I was 20, if you gave me a million dollars, I might have drank myself to death.

When I was 30, if you gave me a million dollars, I might have bought a Ferrari and drove it into a tree some night.

When I was 40, if you gave me a million dollars, I might have bought a mansion.

When I was 50, if you gave me a million dollars, I might have wandered all over the world and forgot about home.

When I was 60, if you gave me a million dollars, I might have gone into politics and tried to turn that million dollars into a billion dollars.

Now that I am over 70, if you gave me a million dollars, I would help my son and daughter and then look for needy people (and animals) to give the rest to.

Not because I am a good man, but because I am a satisfied one. And that came about in spite of, or maybe because of, the absence of your million dollars.

But thanks for the offer, anyway.

©2024 Jim Hagarty

If there has ever been invented a simpler piece of clothing than the T-shirt, I would like to know what it is. Maybe the sock. But on reflection, no. A sock has to have a mate to make any sense and it often requires a search to find it. If it even still exists.

Underwear. Can’t go too far wrong there though it is possible, on a sleepy morning, to try to fit both legs through the same leg hole. And it is near tragic, in a hurry, to realize you’ve put your underwear on front to back.

No, the T-shirt has it all, pretty much. It can be put on backwards, but even if it is, that doesn’t fall into the category of a wardrobe malfunction. It would take a very clear-eyed (and nosy) observer to detect a backwards T-shirt. And it is not something anyone is likely to phone the police about.

Five seconds after I put on my first T-shirt so many moons ago, I knew I had found the perfect, lifelong covering for my torso. And on the rare occasion that I am invited to a formal occasion, there is a simple wardrobe solution. I go to the store and buy a new T-shirt.

But in my eighth decade of ripping around this old world, my perfect T-shirt solution to every problem is somehow breaking down. On more than one occasion, lately, I have arrived home from an adventure on the town (grocery hunting) to discover that I left the house wearing an inside-out T-shirt. To the casual observer, this is unmistakable and, for some, unforgiveable. Except for the fact that, having realized the error of my ways, I am not usually very upset about it. At least on those occasions, most of my other clothing is on the right way around, so what is a little inside-out T-shirt among friends?

In fact, it bothers me so little that removing the shirt and putting it back on the right way is not an automatic, reflex reaction. I have to decide whether or not the effort is worth the gain.

That is the way with a lot of things in my life these days that have decreased in importance the older I get. Perfectionism is no longer the character trait it once was with me, though it rears its head now and then still.

The T-shirt might be, and most definitely is, the most perfect piece of clothing ever invented. The guy who wears it, however, is apt, some days, to have more loose threads than a fabric shop after a tornado.

©2023 Jim Hagarty

Sometimes you are right about people. Sometimes, you’re not.

I was heading for the coffee shop this afternoon and while I left my house in a good mood, I was a cranky old fart when I reached the drivethrough, thanks to three idiot motorists who fried my bacon to a crisp on my way there.

I placed my order, then motioned the car beside me to go ahead of me as it was an open question which of us was next. To add to my misery, the woman in the car ahead of me brandished a bold bumper sticker that announced she was not a very nice person. Why anyone would willingly drive around telling the world you suck is a question I am unable to answer.

I looked for evidence that she was, in fact, the jerk she wanted everyone to know she is, and wasn’t long in gathering my incriminating fact. The server at the window handed her a coffee. She gave it right back and was soon given a larger drink. Crabby is as crabby does.

However, I was soon to discover there was a reason she handed back the coffee.

It was the cup I had ordered.

When I got to the window, I was handed my back-and-forth coffee by a smiling young server who didn’t want any money for it.

“The woman in the car ahead of you paid for it,” she smiled. I flashed my lights at the disappearing car ahead of me to say thanks.

Anyone who buys me a coffee, in my books, is an angel.

That woman needs a new bumper sticker.

For Heaven’s sake.

©2024 Jim Hagarty

It is with great pride, even though you are well aware that I don’t like to brag, that I announce I have the cleanest wild rabbit in my town.

A few days ago, My Bunny darted out of some bushes while I was watering some newly seeded lawn. I inched the mist spray from the water wand close to the rabbit, then directed it right over her head. (I know she is a female as I have been witness to a few sessions of bunny hanky panky in our backyard and … well, we’ll just leave it at that. She was not an unwilling participant.)

The bunny sat under this shower for about five minutes before darting away.

Yesterday, I saw her rip across the lawn and stand in the same spot where she had enjoyed the raindrops falling on her head. I was up at the house but I said to a family member, “I am going to give that bunny another shower.” And I did.

This time, Bunny sat still for at least 15 minutes and became thoroughly drenched. She shook her head when it got too soggy, blinked her eyes and licked her lips to drink the cool, fresh water. It was a very hot and humid day yesterday and she is not a dumb bunny, if, at the same time, perhaps and over-sexed one.

My Bunny didn’t show today but I know she will be back. When she does return, I will direct the spray close to her but not above her. I want to see if she will willingly move under the shower.

I enjoy these summer days but have a little trouble answering when someone asks what I’ve been up to. And while this might seem a little quirky, it makes me feel good to think that I helped that little critter get through her day a little happier.

Besides, she’ll be all spruced up for the next hanky panky session which I expect to occur soon. When I see it starting to happen now, I go into the house.

I can’t bear to watch.

©2022 Jim Hagarty

Yesterday, while walking the main street of a nearby town, I noticed a small sign attached to a brick wall outside a shop. The sign read, “No Dog Peeing.”

Now, the sign was not at my eye level but instead, about two feet above the sidewalk, about eye to eye to an average dog.

This got me thinking. Was this sign intended to be seen and read by dogs? If so, I will go out on a limb and claim that this town has the most intelligent dogs on the planet. However, if they are that smart, the dogs will already know enough not to pee on the sidewalk because the pee will run on the hard surface and soak their paws.

Hence, there is no need for the sign. And yet it is there. And some human being somewhere actually took the time to make it while another one got down on his or her knees and attached it to the wall.

This is what your life has come down to: advising dogs against peeing. I wonder how well the multiple people behind this sign know dogs. Dogs do not pee on flat hard surfaces like concrete, but on grass and trees (with the exception of fire hydrants) where the pee soaks into the ground and doesn’t spread out like a puddle.

However, they will lift their legs against metal and plastic items such as recycling boxes, bicycles and steel poles that hold signs. In other words, they like to pee on items such as plastic/metal signs affixed to brick walls telling them not to pee.

Oh, sweet irony, you are my god and my salvation!

©2013 Jim Hagarty

I don’t believe in magic. Everything can be explained. With one exception. My Magical Jar. I wish it contained silver dollars and hundred dollar bills, but it doesn’t. It contains screwnails. It’s a one-litre peanut butter jar I cleaned out about 30 years ago and into which I tossed the few screws I had at the time.

Since then, that jar has never run out of screws nor has it overflowed but it has almost always had just the screws I need for any project. On Sunday, for example, I needed six weather-treated deck screws, exactly one-and-one-quarter inches long. I had no idea whether or not I had any deck screws in the jar, let alone that length. But I dumped all the screws out and went fishing. A few minutes later, in my hand, were the six screws I needed, exactly the right length. The funny thing is, there were no other screws like that in the jar.

This happens all the time. I go to that jar several times a week and remove some of its contents. But no matter how many screws I take out, the level of them in the jar, which is always about half full, never seems to change. A loaves and fishes kind of thing.

I might need two, one-inch brass woodscrews. There they are. Four, two-inch metal screws. Ditto.

I never consciously go to the store to buy screws to top up the jar. But I do buy new screws on occasion for a project and I guess the leftovers go into the jar. Also, I accumulate screws from various items we buy for the house and which seem to be unneeded.

However the screwnails get into that jar, the jar is always forthcoming. Like a golden goose or a pot of gold. Maybe even a genie and a lamp. But that would be just my luck to waste one of my three wishes on six deck screws.

I have many of my Dad’s handtools and shovels, rakes etc., which I will pass on to my son and daughter someday. I don’t know who will get the screwnail jar. Maybe they’ll have to flip a coin from my coin jar which, alas, is always running on empty.

©2014 Jim Hagarty

I live across the street from a neighbourhood newsman. Almost every day, we meet on the sidewalk, and he shares information with me that I am glad to find out. He always presents this news while looking around and over his shoulder and in a low voice as though someone in authority was watching and listening. It is all very conspiratorial. All very interesting.

One day last week was especially fruitful. He had two big pizza shop announcements to make. Two shops are moving out of the downtown area (sad to hear that) to outlying malls.

I spent my career in community news but I was only half as good as my neighbour. He always reassures me that he doesn’t know whether or not what he says is accurate, it’s just what he heard, but then he tells me how many sources he has. I rarely had as many sources for my stories as he has. He is right more often than wrong. His sources are a bunch of guys he has coffee with every night. Just a bunch of local guys but sometimes they are joined by a retired police chief or retired fire chief, so the next day’s news is almost guaranteed to be jam packed.

I have often been invited to join the nightly sessions but I have begged off so many times I don’t get asked any more. One night, I happened to be there when a full, official meeting was in session, so I wandered over and joined them all. I wasn’t long in realizing I didn’t belong. To begin with, I wasn’t wearing a baseball cap.

I have better things to do. I hope that doesn’t sound like I think I am better than them, but really … And yet, every morning, I find myself, without reason, standing on my sidewalk at the end of my driveway, waiting for my daily report. I often have a broom in hand and pretend to be sweeping up.

Sometimes, the newsman, doesn’t appear. Or almost worse, he shows up, but has no news. Every conversation starts the same way. “So, what’s new?” I ask. “Not a thing,” says my neighbour. If he doesn’t look around him, worried about being overheard, I know there is no news. But if he adopts a tone of conspiracy, I am usually in for a haul.

I then take all the news back inside the house and share it with my family. I am careful to lower my voice and look over my shoulder before I do. Which reminds me. I have yet to tell them the double whammy pizza shop news. I don’t want to spoil everyone’s day. But this is big.

©2016 Jim Hagarty

When I was 10 years old, I thought my Dad knew everything.

When I was 20, I was pretty sure I knew everything.

When I was 30, I believed a fast-talking friend of mine knew everything.

When I was 40, I thought the woman I married knew everything.

When I was 50, I thought some guy who wrote a book about living knew everything.

When I was 60, I came to believe my kids knew everything.

And now that I am 70, I have finally discovered who it is that knows everything.

That person is Nobody.

Nobody knows everything and knows it very well.

I am sure this will come as a surprise to all of you and if you wonder how I figured this out, check back to what I believed when I was 20.

©2021 Jim Hagarty