Author: Jim Hagarty

I’ve tried pretty hard over the years to not get too far from my rural roots, of which I am proud. I recently bought a nice baseball-type cap at a store which caters to rural people with “Farm Boy” written on the front of it. I think it suits me.

But when you live in the city, the hayseed schtick has to be reined in a bit. When I am in my backyard, which is surrounded by a six-foot-high privacy fence, I will happily wear my farmer’s straw hat, which I should wear to keep the sun from further damaging my tender skin. And if the day is hot, I might even take off my shirt. (On reflection, maybe that is why the house next door has sold over and over again for the past 15 years. Hmmm.)

But as backwoods proud as I am, I don’t seem to be able to summon up the courage to go straw hat clad and shirtless in my front yard. To me, that would be kind of like giving up the facade I have developed. I want to be a city slicker and country bumpkin all at the same time. To be honest, I’m not sure I am either one at this stage in my life.

Nevertheless, having lost my nicely toned physique somewhere in my 30s, I am reluctant to foist images of a topless me on the brains of innocent passersby who would have otherwise done nothing wrong but walk by my house at an inopportune time. So, if I am in the backyard wearing a straw hat and no shirt, I will don a shirt and a baseball cap before I go to the front yard to water flowers or cut lawn. Seems only fair to everyone involved, including me.

But last night as I went for my walk, I was confronted by my neighbour George, a widower slightly older than me, who was out cutting his lawn in a huge straw hat and with no shirt on. Taking a quick glance, if I was his fashion consultant, I might have recommended a shirt, as George has shown up for every meal for many years, just like I have. But if being half naked in full view of passersby bothered him, he wasn’t showing it. Maybe he was counting on people not noticing his state of undress as they stared at his oversized cowboy hat made of actual straw.

You know, I will admit to a certain admiration for George. He lost his wife a couple of years back and now, sitting in his driveway, is a convertible he bought a week ago, something he and his wife always planned to do. He also has a new lady in his life. I think there is a connection between the convertible, his new friend, the hat and the toplessness. I think he probably just wants to live the rest of his life not worrying what all those passersby might think.

“I’m going through my second childhood,” he told me, with a chuckle. “I’m still finishing my first one,” I replied.

So, if you see me semi-naked under a big straw hat cutting my front lawn, you can assume Childhood No. 2 has arrived. For confirmation, check to see if there is a sports car in my driveway. And a Buddy Holly CD in the stereo.

©2015 Jim Hagarty

We have a thief in our neighbourhood and it’s troubling.

So far, the culprit has made off with only small things – rhubarb plants (removed by the roots), steel bars, old panelling, used two-by-fours. But the absconder is getting more brazen.

A new house was being built directly across the street from our place after the house that was there burned down. One day, the concrete trucks arrived. They poured the footings. Came back a few days later and poured the walls.

The stealer man noticed that each time the concrete truck left the site, the workers left behind a neat little pile of wet concrete on the ground. They should have put a sign in the pile, “Free.”

Shovel by shovel, the neighbour stealthily removed great quantities of the concrete which he put to good use as mortar for his stone porch which was getting wobbly.

However, he made one critical error. He stopped for supper one night and when he went back, the concrete in the pile had set.

I feel like Grover Monster from Sesame Street who was featured in a great kids’ book, There’s a Monster at the End of this Book. All the through the book, poor Grover gets more and more worried about the monster he will meet at the end of the book and he tries to get the reader to stop, so the end won’t be reached. But alas, he makes it to the final page, only to find the monster is himself.

My front porch never looked better.

©2016 Jim Hagarty

Ten years ago, a big hole appeared under my shed. A groundhog had taken up residence in the hole but he was evicted thanks to my garden hose after I heard that a groundhog can mess up a little dog such as we have.

Even when the hog was still there, I filled in the hole a couple of times, and he dug it out. I even put a rock in front of it after filling it in. He pushed the rock aside.

But ten years have passed. The groundhog is gone, but the hole is still there. A little grassed over and from time to time, it looks like someone has moved in, but it soon goes dormant again.

However, two days ago, I just about fainted when I saw that some animal has not only cleaned out the hole but expanded it. There is enough fresh dirt kicked out onto the lawn to half fill a wheelbarrow.

This is an instance when you wouldn’t want to own the imagination I was cursed with. My first thought was that a bear cub could fit in that hole with room to spare. Maybe two or three cubs were living under my shed. But I am also able to access the logical side of my brain, weak though it might be at times, and decided bears would need more room to create a den under my shed.

The next obvious candidate was a wolverine. For some reason, I was raised to have a terrible fear of wolverines. We did live on a farm and maybe at some time in the last hundred years one did wander though and ate a goose or a calf but my siblings and I got repeated warnings about wolverines to the point where I half expected to run into one on the way to the barn to do the chores at night.

Wolverines are nasty creatures, for sure, and how one got under my shed I will never know. But I wasn’t happy about it.

Then I remembered we have five bunnies ripping around our yard – two adults and three babies – so maybe they are down there. But I doubt that. The wolverine would scare them off.

I discounted the idea that another groundhog had taken up residence as I think I made myself pretty clear ten years ago that groundhogs are not welcome.

So yesterday, summoning up all the courage I don’t have, I went behind the shed and stood by the hole. Almost immediately, I saw a nose emerge from the hole and then two oversized eyes and a head. Then the thing came right out and started zipping around. Fortunately, it didn’t see me.

I suppose there are some who would say the threat level arising from a chipmunk is pretty low. That would seem to be right but some species of chipmunks have been around since the dinosaurs.

So, if they can outlive the dinosaurs, I think one of these hardy guys, if he got in a lucky first shot, could really mess me up.

I’m starting to miss the wolverine.

©2020 Jim Hagarty

I have been on a few job interviews in my life. Some went very well, some badly. My most memorable bad one occurred when I was offered the job but then told the interviewer I would need some time to think about it.

“What kind of guy interviews for a job he’s not sure he wants?” asked the ticked off interviewer, who subsequently hired me. Then fired me later.

But at least one job seeker in Kentucky seems to have gone about things in perhaps exactly the wrong way, though this is just an opinion. A young man walked into a Chuck E. Cheese restaurant in a Lexington mall this week and asked for a job application.

An interview was scheduled for 4:30 p.m. He showed up 10 minutes early which I would say shows initiative and interest. If I had been interviewing him, I would have been impressed.

But in the interview, the job seeker, in my view, made a critical error. If you are looking for work, you might want to avoid making this mistake.

Our young hero told the manager he had a gun and he was there to rob the place. When the manager informed him that he did not have access to the safe, the young man apologized and then got very upset and left.

Two mistakes: Don’t try to rob your prospective employer. That approach does not usually result in a good first impression. And don’t show too much emotion during the interview. You want to project stability.

The man left and apparently had better luck when he robbed a dollar store down the street and got some cash. He hid in the store and waited till it closed before demanding money from the clerk.

But still no job.

I have always found it is a mistake to hide in a place of business until after it is closed. Above all, job interviewers do not seem to deal well with surprises.

©2016 Jim Hagarty

If you are going to be a curmudgeon, be a good one. No half-hearted attempts. I am developing an online how-to course on the subject so look for that soon.

But I would like to share one little piece from the coming curriculum. To be a decent curmudgeon, you have to find a few things to hate that no one else in the world would take the time to hate or even think to hate. Like apple pie, for example. Hopefully you love your Mom because if not, there goes the whole “Mom and apple pie” bit for you.

I hate apple pie but I loved my Mom so I am batting .500 on that.

But I also loathe an annual flower called impatiens. I will go out on a limb and suggest you don’t know of anyone who hates impatiens and even I can’t think of anyone else who despises them. No sense trying to figure it out. Just go with it.

Every year our flowerbeds get planted with a nice variety of annuals but eventually, they are flooded by impatiens, like way too much whipped cream on a piece of pie. The coloured ones I can almost tolerate but the white ones drive me crazy. It is like going out for ice cream and finding the shop sells only vanilla.

I complain mildly every year, for all the good it does. Sooner or later, we have impatiens.

This year, for reasons that are still not clear to me, the job of planting the flowerbeds was assigned to me. I pretended to be mildly unhappy about the order, but secretly, I knew this was my chance to set things right.

Off to the garden centres I raced. Three of them in all. The last one suited me the best. They had all kinds of pretty flowers and I set my sights on one beautiful bunch. There were several trays of them but when I returned the next day to buy them they were all gone.

I looked at others. Some were too expensive. Some needed sun, no shade, and our beds are under a maple. I finally was drawn to one section that had lots and lots of very pretty blooms. Purple, orange, red, pink and even white. The price was right. I grabbed a bunch of them.

“What did you get?” asked my wife, who has always looked after the beds, when I brought my bounty into the backyard.

“Impatiens,” I answered, and here is the reason we are still married after 31 years.

“Oh, they’ll be nice,” she said, giving up her golden opportunity to remind me of how much impatiens hating I have done over the years.

I planted them. And as flowers have a tendency to do, even impatiens, I guess, they’re growing on me. Even the white ones.

The Curmudgeon Course will be a flat $300 fee.

©2020 Jim Hagarty

It was so hot and humid out today and I worked like a trooper outside for hours to get ready for Canada Day.

In the process of doing this, I happened to squeeze out every last ounce of moisture that my body had managed to capture and I was left desperate to replenish the lost fluids. Little did I realize the tragic circumstances I would face in my search for something to drink.

There was no lemonade in the fridge and no orange juice. There was a little bit of apple juice but apple juice is not high up on the approved list of thirst quenchers. Lots of cold pop but I have never turned to pop to rehydrate myself. Maybe some orange pop, now and then, but we didn’t have any.

I made a mad dash for the freezer, hoping to find popsicles. There were only a few banana popsicles there and those things are the devil’s handiwork.

So, I was beat.

Then I noticed a tall pitcher of something in the fridge which I had overlooked. The pitcher was filled to the brim with a clear liquid. Almost in full panic attack by this time, I filled a large glass with this liquid and headed out to sit under the maple tree.

I sipped away at this odd material until ounce by boring ounce, it disappeared. I was to learn later, upon inquiry, that what I had consumed was water.

I was surprised to find that it went down fairly well on a blistering hot day but it’s bland as baby mash and the sugar content seems to be very much on the low side.

However, I am glad to know that should I ever again face death by dehydration, I could, as a last resort, try a glass of water.

I shouldn’t complain but water doesn’t seem like a very manly beverage so if you don’t mind, I would like to keep all this between me and you. Thanks a lot.

©2020 Jim Hagarty

I have been spreading a lot of B.S. this week.

“This week?” asks a cynical reader. “You spread that stuff every week.”

Ouch!

To answer more clearly, perhaps, I have been dumping a lot of cattle manure on our flower and vegetable gardens as I work them up. I can’t honestly say I know for sure whether or not any actual bulls were involved in producing the cattle crap sold in big 28-litre bags, but I will go right ahead and assume a few of the big brutes lent their lovely sewage to the mixture of cattle feces and compost.

My parents have been gone almost 40 years now but if by some miracle, Dad could call me up to ask what I was up to today, I can’t begin to imagine what his reaction would be to the idea that I drove to a grocery store and brought home four big bags of cow poop which I willingly paid for.

Nevertheless, back then, on our farm, we were well aware of the value of the stuff our 300 big beasts pumped out every hour of every day. We used tractors and manure spreaders to fling the smelly golden goodness all over the fields where the soil was greatly enriched once the poop was well worked in.

Unfortunately, as a family, we were not enriched in the way we could apparently have been if we’d bagged up the stuff and sold it for $2.50. And if I had even suggested we do that, assuming I could have foreseen that this would someday be a thing, I think farmers everywhere would have taken to shunning me in church and at the general store.

It is probably just as well I didn’t raise the issue. Besides, there were enough hard jobs to handle on the farm without running along behind ornery cattle, trying to train them to poop inside big plastic bags.

©2023 Jim Hagarty

It’s funny how life goes. You can be right as rain and the next moment, you’re staring at a big black stain on the heel of your left foot. It won’t wash off. Soaking your foot in a pan of hot water does nothing. Hmmm. You try to figure out where it might have come from, but nothing occurs to you. You spend a nervous night in bed tossing and turning in bewilderment and fear.

By morning, two more spots have shown themselves, on the tops of toes on both feet.

So, nothing left to do but consult Dr. Internet. He puts his head together with Dr. Google and they soon present some very bad news. You have a deadly form of skin cancer called Melanoma. The symptoms all line up. There is a second assessment suggesting it could be Tinea Nigra, a less serious condition that results from coming in contact with compost. You have been working a lot in the gardens this week. You don’t wear socks in the summer.

But in situations such as these, it is best to go with the most negative evaluation available and so skin cancer it is. A wave of self-pity washes over you. But you’ve had a good life. No complaints. Never been to Disney World, but oh well.

Your family is alerted. They do a careful inspection and your daughter takes photos of all the spots. The suggestion is made to go see your family doctor. You phone. He can see you at 2 p.m. The quickness of the appointment suggests urgency on his part. When you leave your house to drive there, will you ever see home again? You forgot to say goodbye to your son, the dog and the cats.

Your family suggests a vigorous shower before seeing your doctor and your daughter offers a special soap she uses for stubborn cleaning jobs. You sit down on the seat in the shower, take a rough washcloth, and start scrubbing. You scrub harder than your Mama used to scour you in the kitchen sink on Saturday night in preparation for church the next morning.

A miracle takes place.

You phone the doctor, embarrassed, and call off your appointment, explaining that every bit of the stains came off during the vigorous self-cleaning. You were suffering from, not Melanoma, nor Tinea Nigra, but Dirty Foot Syndrome. All is quiet on the other end of the line. The nurse cancels your appointment and has a story for her co-workers.

You begin planning your trip to Disney World.

©2019 Jim Hagarty

There are several levels of lazy. I am sure you are acquainted with some of them, if only because you have watched the slackers around you tweedle deeing when they should be tweedle doing.

You, of course, don’t have this problem, and I am proud of you. So proud. But please, in the name of every sloth currently hanging by its toes from a tropical tree somewhere, uninterested in any activity involving movement, I beg of you not to be too smug. Because all the Laziness Levels eventually touch most people’s lives and even if you are strong enough to escape them, you might not be able to evade the Hall of Fame level – The Laziness of the Retired.

And while you may think right now that you will have well devised strategies ahead of time to combat the temptation to sit like a frog in a pond all day and wait for insects to fly too close to your tongue, you might find yourself drawn to Total Idleness on only your second day after retiring.

I just don’t have the energy to go into all the ins and outs of Retirement Lazy, but maybe this example will do.

Leaving the bathroom after your premiere morning visit, you feel an old familiar nether region cooling wind and realize your fly is open. Now, closing your fly is something you were always pretty good at attending to, but retired, zipping up the he-man hardware is just one of those things that can be attended to later.

After all, you rightfully reason, The Queen and Prince Philip don’t arrive at your home till Sunday and this is only Thursday. No panic.

You drive all other family members to their non-retirement destinations such as school and work, then hit the coffee shop. There is a breeze, somehow, under your table, and once again, the fly trouble calls for a solution. But you are wearing a long winter coat, no risk of sudden exposure.

However, two hours later, upon exiting a grocery store, a blast of Arctic air works its way up into the unadjusted apparel and suddenly, the wages of your sin seem much too high to pay.

So, four hours after first identifying the issue, the matter is dealt with. Tomorrow, you will brush your teeth. The day after that, there will be a meeting of clippers and fingernails but only those nails in dire need of trimming shall be attended to.

The Queen would not be amused but just watch her decadent decline once she, too, retires. Which, and there is a lesson in this somewhere, she just hasn’t gotten around to doing.

What a Procrastinating Princess!

©2015 Jim Hagarty

I never used to cry. I think I went a whole decade or two in my earlier life without shedding so much as a tear. Now, some days, I’m a blubbering idiot.

The other day, reflecting on my upbringing on a farm, I wrote a poem about cattle and I bawled louder than a calf lookin’ for its mama all the way through the writing of it and for an hour after. I’m tearing up right now just remembering it.

The slightest thing can set me off.

But it’s the strangest thing. There doesn’t seem to be much sadness associated with the tearbursts that come over me like a sudden rainfall in spring. Maybe a bit. But it seems like the waterworks are associated more with gratitude than with regret.

I have been an incredibly fortunate man and have lived what seems to me to be five lifetimes in one. I am not sure what my goals were at 20, but I surely never imagined a life as good as the one I have been given. I used the word “given” on purpose. The Universe has been kind to me.

I spent a lot of years, I think, not feeling much. Hunkered down in the chase after all the things that are supposed to matter to a man in mid-life. Success, recognition, financial stability, accumulation of possessions, accumulation of experiences like the kind that travelling the world can bestow. Too busy living life to be absorbed with much reflection.

But now I remember moments. I remember people. I remember favourite pets and favourite trees and favourite places on Earth that have brought me joy.

And sometimes when I do, a tear or twenty escape their normally locked-tight holding cell. These days, there seems no need to keep the door locked on my feelings.

That is the thing I am most grateful for. Because mixed in between the tears is laughter, laughter like I have never known before.

Tears and Laughter originate from the same sacred holy ground called Perspective. Whatever advantages young people have in life, and they have many, Perspective seems to be the prize waiting near the finish line.

Perspective is what causes old folks to declare …

I wouldn’t change a thing.

©2016 Jim Hagarty