Author: Jim Hagarty

I’ve always sort of envied the great singer Frank Sinatra. He had regrets, but just a few, too few, in fact, to mention. I think he was lucky that way.

As for me, while I am not flooded with regrets, I think I might outdo Old Blue Eyes in that department. I won’t go through the whole list with you, though I am sure you wish I would mention them all, unlike Frank, but I will touch on a few of the things I’ve done that I wish I hadn’t.

When I was about ten years old, I ate horse radish. I really wish I hadn’t done that and regret it to this day. But we had a rule around our kitchen table. A boy could not reject a food without trying it. I regret that rule and I have never forgiven the horses who made the radish. Or maybe it was made from horses, as I thought. I don’t know.

I regret jumping into a pond and coming out of there with blood suckers attached to my legs. Those creatures were literally bloodthirsty. I regret accepting a hitchhiker’s ride with a speed demon who buried the needle on his speedometer at 120 miles an hour before he agreed to let me out. I also regret that the hair started falling out of my head that day.

In my first year of university, I regret dating two sisters at the same time. The words of the Lovin’ Spoonful song, “Did You Ever Have to Make Up Your Mind?”, still ring in my brain today. The sisters, upon finding out they were dating the same guy, made up my mind for me. I further regret that the three of us were in most of the same classes that year so I was able to relive the error of my ways almost every day.

But that was a long time ago, and I have piled up new regrets. One of them involves a tee-shirt I bought a few years ago. It’s a very nice shirt but it had an oversized tag inside the collar that scraped against my neck.

So, I ripped it off.

I really regret doing that because when I put on the shirt, which I do almost every day, I don’t know which is the front and which is the back. And I regret that there is such a thing as the law of averages because 90 per cent of the time, I pull the darned thing on backwards.

But, like Bugs Bunny said when he defied the law of gravity in one episode, “I never studied law.” And I regret having never studied it too.

Still, not as much as I regret eating horse radish.

©2021 Jim Hagarty

With all the awful things going on in the world right now, maybe we could bow our heads and spare a thought for this poor schmoe.

A Missouri drug possession suspect hiding from police farted so loudly, he led cops straight to him. The Clay County Sheriff’s Office posted on Facebook a picture of deputies searching for the suspect in question, along with a warning that if you’ve got a felony warrant for your arrest, the cops are looking for you and you pass gas so loudly it gives up your hiding spot, you’re definitely having a shitty day.

The cops ended the post with a poop emoji.

Police added, “We’ve gotta give props to Liberty PD for using their senses to sniff him out!”

Only one word left to say: Bummer.

©2019 Jim Hagarty

I am just now drinking a bottle of lime pop. Tastes okay. I haven’t had one in many years. I wonder how much lime is in it.

The ingredients are listed according to the amount with the biggest amounts at the start, dwindling down to the smaller ones. No surprise, carbonated water forms the biggest part of this drink. Second, of course, is sugar/glucose-fructose. Third is citric acid. “Citric” might be lime, but I don’t know.

Then comes “natural flavour.” I wonder what that is. Then modified corn starch. Sounds reasonable. After that, sodium benzoate. I’m guessing salt.

Acacia gum?

Then we leave the fairway and are into the rough: sucrose acetate isobutyrate, glycerol ester of wood rosin (there’s wood in my drink?), brominated vegetable oil, colour and guar gum.

What is ester, what is brominated, what is guar? When I was young, I would go into pubs and emerge a few hours later inebriated. Never did I ever get brominated, at least I don’t think I did.

The point is, nowhere in the ingredients is the word “lime” listed. How can you make a lime drink without any actual lime being included? But what would I know?

Somewhere there is a lime pop tycoon tooling around his mansion, probably sucking back a drink of freshly squeezed real lime. Probably wouldn’t drink this pop I am holding in my hand on the threat of death.

©2012 Jim Hagarty

A groundhog is living in our backyard. Not just any groundhog, either. This fat brown beast is the stupidest groundhog in the world. I admit I have not met all the other groundhogs and have therefore not been able to make an assessment of them, but I feel pretty good about my judgment that this silly critter is one dumb bunny, if you can call a groundhog a bunny.

Why do I say this? Here are the deets, as they say nowadays.

A groundhog digs a hole at each end of its tunnel, for airflow and for escape if being chased by a predator. Now our GH guy is either dumb as a post, as previously stated, or a terrible urban planner. His two holes are thus located: Hole #1 is under the edge of our shed. Not a terrible choice, perhaps. Hole #2 is not so well chosen. It comes up right in the middle of the neighbour’s firepit. Smack dab in the centre.

Once a week, my neighbour starts a huge bonfire on that pit, a fire that was so big one time, the fire department roared up to put it out. I wonder how life is in the hog’s home when these massive fires are burning. A little on the toasty side, I suspect.

But dumb as he may be, he’s no quitter, I’ll give him that. I filled in the hole he dug under our shed. Two days later I went back to find the hole had been dug out again. You can’t keep good a hog down, I guess. However, if he wanders out of the hole he dug out at the neighbour’s place at the wrong time, he might be the main feature at a community pig roast.

I would try to feel sorry for him, I guess, but really, what was he thinking? As smart as I think I am, I have never been privy to the thoughts of the mighty groundhog.

©2013 Jim Hagarty

Last Christmas is long gone and we had a good one. Too many gifts, too much food, movie after movie, song after song. We never let that event slip by unnoticed.

And for me, the gifts seemingly never end, in spite of the months that have passed.

I came in the house last night to announce our backyard has been turned into a playground for skunks. Not being a fan of the smelly creatures, though some think of them as cute, I raced to the Internet to take a course at the University of Google as to how to chase away skunks. Suggestions were there aplenty.

But one in particular caught my eye. Skunks like darkness, so along with removing birdseed from the ground and dumping over the water sources, my next assault could only be lots and lots of light. So, I dashed about flicking on outside lights till the Blue Jays could have played a night game back there.

No dice. Skunks laughed at my efforts. Skunks laughing is a sound you don’t want to hear so I won’t describe it for you.

“If only I had a really strong flashlight I would shine it right in their faces,” I said. “They hate that.”

My wife left the discussion, ran downstairs and re-emerged with a Christmas present she forgot to give me. A heavy duty flashlight that could spot a tick on a black cat at 200 metres.

Joy unending. And the light worked. Skunks ran away faster than Blue Jays celebrating a win.

But my enthusiasm took a beating when I later realized that it took me talking about skunks to make my wife think of me. And her gift, of course.

However, on reflection, I realized it didn’t matter that she didn’t think of me until the discussion of skunks came up. As long as I was finally noticed, the hurt began to subside.

I’ve been madly seeking attention all my life, so if it took being associated with skunks to deliver some, I would be one ungrateful cad to raise a stink about it.

On to my next indignity!

©2024 Jim Hagarty

I walk into the second-hand shop.

“Can I help you?” asks the clerk.

“Yes, please. I am looking to buy an albatross.”

“Well, as you can see, our shop is full of albatrosses. Could you be more specific?”

“Sorry, of course,” I reply. “I am looking for a stand-alone cabinet with four shelves, two of them adjustable. I would like it to be made of pressed board, in other words, very cheap and wobbly.”

“And what do you want it for?” asks the clerk.

“To hold other, smaller albatrosses, many of which I have bought over the years in this very shop.”

“Certainly, sir. And how long do you see yourself owning this albatross?”

“I would like to trip over it three times a day for the next 10 years,” I reply. “At the end of that time, I will bring it back to you and donate it to the shop, hopefully with all the other albatrosses it will have been holding all those years.”

Clerk goes in back, comes out with big albatross.

“Oh, my. That would be perfect,” I comment. “How much?”

“Ten dollars,” says the clerk.

“You’re joking,” I say. I pay for it right away in case he changes his mind, load it up in my car and bring it home. What a bargain!

These next 10 years are going to be great!

©2016 Jim Hagarty

I was walking along the sidewalk on the way to the dentist this afternoon when I looked down and saw a hammer. A lightweight one with rubber on the yellow handle. Pretty cool. I am now the owner of a yellow hammer with rubber on the handle.

It occurred to me to leave it where it was in case the rightful owner returned, but I doubt that would happen and someone else’s toolbox would be one hammer fuller tonight. So I walked into the dentist’s office carrying a hammer.

I imagined I saw fear in the eyes of the people who work there and read their minds: “Old Jim’s finally gone nuts” as they are aware that I think dental bills are too high and I wonder if they thought I’d come to seek revenge. I explained the story and all was well. But they still looked at me as though I had hit myself in the head with the hammer 50 times before I walked in.

The reason I kept the hammer was this: Years ago, I was sitting in a coffee shop (when they still had stools) and I was right next to the cashier. There was a lineup. I looked down to see a $20 bill on the floor. I picked it up and said, “Anybody lose a twenty?” A young man in line instantly yelled, “I did” and grabbed the bill out of my hand. A young woman in front of him with two little kids at her legs frantically started searching in her purse, I believe, for the missing twenty. The jerk behind her got it.

So, if I had held that hammer up today and called out, “Anybody lose a hammer?” I know that guy or a jerk just like him would come speeding by on a bike, grab the hammer and take off.

Besides, I think Life throws you a free hammer every now and expects you to take it. So I did.

I nailed it!

©2013 Jim Hagarty

I was startled to read last year that the best food for wild rabbits and the one they love the most is timothy hay.

Having taken a keen interest in the half dozen bunnies that inhabit our yards, I mentioned to the family my finding about the hay. I have to be careful about what I discuss around my family because on Dec. 25, 2022, I got a bale of hay for Christmas. If there was another person in the world that got a bale of hay for Christmas, I want the details.

Shortly thereafter, someone asked me what I got for Christmas and, of course, I replied: “Twenty pounds of grass.”

The other night, I was standing not far from the shed, heading that way to close the door for the night. But My Bunny, the one that thinks I’m her overgrown Dad, raced me to the door and got there first. I talked to her and asked her what she was doing in the shed and I soon saw that she was snooping around the bale of hay, bits and pieces of which we parcelled out to the bunnies all winter.

Then she hopped right up on the bale, turned and faced me and all but declared, “This is my hay! Get your own!”

But to be safe, if I find out this year that what wild bunnies need most of all is a 50-gallon drum of molasses, I am going to keep that information to myself.

©2023 Jim Hagarty

Some families are super cautious. We all know the type. They install deadbolts on the insides of the doors to their bathrooms, lest a home invader wander in while a family member is having a bath. All the drawers on their filing cabinet have locks lest a stranger makes off with their lawnmower manual and warranty. They throw out food a week in advance of the best before date because you can never trust those best before people. They have motion-sensor lights and cameras everywhere and have all the security forces – fire, police, ambulance, etc., on speed dial.

Then there are the careless types who live their lives as though they are the only occupants of a desert island and would be shocked if another human being took their stuff.

My family belongs in the cautious group, though it seems we avoid the extremes. However, while I was cleaning out the car today, I re-evaluated where we are on the Careful Careless Scale. I hope there is a prize for this because I have a feeling we might win.

The first thing I did on my cleaning job was to pull out the heavy winter mat from the floor of the driver’s side. I shook it out and set it on the roof of the car. I dove back into the car only to discover a second winter’s mat in the spot where I had just removed the first one. Curious, I inspected the rest of the car only to find that this car is outfitted with eight winter mats. Underneath the multiple winter mats, I discovered the nice black carpet that was laid by the people who made the car back in 2006. So, the logic seemed to be that the original carpet needed to be protected like the gown Elizabeth I wore to her coronation in the 1500s.

Yes, I revealed that little gem. Our car is 16 years old. We paid $2,000 for it, but that is deceptive. We bought it within the family so were given a break. It has been a wonderful vehicle in the three years we’ve owned it with a near pristine original carpet. I am just glad we didn’t pay $5,000 for it because I can only guess at the precautionary measures that would be taken for a car so much more valuable.

On the careful-careless scale, I sometimes fail to read warning signs so tonight I brought up the case of the eight winter mats at our weekly Family Council Meeting, and in full careless mode, suggested we might be able to get by with just four mats. I won’t go into details about how my suggestion went over except to say I was sad when the meeting was over.

This afternoon I was in a tire store and there before me I beheld a display of rubber winter mats, made to fit any car. My wife’s birthday occurs just before winter. If eight mats keep my people happy, I am imagining their joy at 12 mats.

Sometimes my ideas aren’t great, but this one’s solid gold.

I can feel it.

©2022 Jim Hagarty

It started out innocently enough. Someone from Vernon Directories Ltd., when he or she was preparing the 1985 City of Stratford Directory, felt sorry that I didn’t have a wife at the time. So, he or she or it – it might have been a computer – decided to give me one. Therefore, when the hardcover, comprehensive directories appeared around town that year, Jas. J. Hagarty (that’s me) was listed as living happily ever after on Cobourg Street with his dear wife, Evelyn.

It took a few days for the remarks to die down in the newsroom where I worked. Comments such as, “What are you and Evelyn doing this weekend?” and “Will Evelyn be coming to the company party this year?” And in time, I almost forgot I was married. I’ll admit that was a leap because I had never before been married.

But strange things started happening. Evelyn began getting phone calls late at night from a husky-voiced man who hung up as soon as he heard my voice. An old boyfriend, I presumed. And my dear devoted spouse got calls from other women, inviting her to dinnerware parties, gold parties and bridal showers. Then there were girls’ nights out, the status of women committee meetings and cooking classes.

Before long, I began to feel left out. If she’d wanted to be free as an eagle, she never should have got married. Christmas cards came addressed to Jim and Evelyn and other couples started asking us out. Neighbours invited her over for afternoon tea and soon, it began to occur to me that I might as well be living alone.

I knew things had gone too far when I started leaving the front porch light on for her at night before I went up to bed. But the whole thing really got out of hand when plainclothes detectives visited me one day for a chat. Neighbours were concerned, they said, about Evelyn. They hadn’t seen her around in a while. Not in weeks, they said, months in some cases. Where was she, they wondered.

I tried to explain, in a good-natured way, how a misprint in a directory had led to the confusion. The cops weren’t buying it. What had I done with her, they wanted to know. Nothing, I said. I hadn’t touched her.

“Aha,” they exclaimed. “So, you admit she exists?” It all got extremely ugly after that and before it was over, the three of us took a trip to the basement and to the backyard to see if anyone might have been recently laid to rest against her will.

My name was cleared in the end and the phone calls from Evelyn’s friends and neighbours eventually stopped. I adjusted to single life again. But when a note was left in my mailbox two weeks later asking me to call the directory company with information for the city’s 1987 directory (they publish every two years), I was ready.

“Evelyn’s packed up and left,” I told the woman on the phone. “We had a terrible squabble and she’s gone. Gone forever, she is, and between you and me, I’m darned glad to be rid of her. So, when you’re writing me up in next year’s directory, please leave her name out.”

“That’s fine,” the woman said. “But should I still go ahead and list the names of your four children? Or does Evelyn have them?”

©1987 Jim Hagarty