Author: Jim Hagarty

I was beyond irritated with whoever left the back door open as night fell (it was me). Our old cat Mario can operate the screen door beyond the steel door and when he gets outside after dark, he turns from docile domestic kitty to fierce feral tomcat faster than Clark Kent becomes Superman. And once outside at that time of night, getting him back into the house requires the guile and cunning of a search party and a swat team. It can be 2 a.m. or later before he reappears.

But I had to try anyway.

“Mario,” I yelled into the darkness. I followed this up with six or seven more Mario calls, each one more desperate than the one before, all of them dripping with anxiety and frustration. But, of course, I had to be careful to not let the cat know I was angry.

But this night, after a few calls, I was glad to sense an animal approaching the screen door in the growing darkness.

The creature showed itself at the door.

And there stood My Bunny, the friendly backyard rabbit that sometimes comes when I call her but is obviously oblivious to the fact that her name is not Mario.

I was happy to see her, even if she wasn’t the cat, and I talked to her as I always do, asking her what she was up to, and telling her I love her, as I do every time I speak to her. I have found that no matter how much you show a wild rabbit how much you care for her, she still likes to hear the reassurance of some terms of endearment.

So, I babbled on like this for a few more minutes until I heard a distinctive “meow” behind me. I turned to see Mario at the bottom of the steps, leading to the rec room, looking to be fed.

When I turned back to the screen door, Bunny was gone.

The other thing I’ve learned about bunnies is they never like to share the spotlight with any other critter.

No matter how much you express your love for them.

©2022 Jim Hagarty

Another tale from Jim’s Twilight Zone.

I walk for 35 minutes each morning as per doctor’s orders. As I walk, I stoop to pick up garbage which I put in a shopping bag. No, I am not a saint though I expect to be made one soon, except one of the requirements is that you be dead first and I am not in a rush.

I pick up garbage for the exercise of bending down to the ground which is good for my back and legs. (And to cement my saint application.)

One morning recently, I looked down to see a familiar blue piece of paper on the sidewalk and happily deposited a Canadian $5 bill in my pocket. That night I went to an outdoor bluegrass jam. Now, I have never had one of those neat little electronic tuners that clamp to the end of your guitar but have long wanted one. Every player, it seems, has one these days.

A friend paid $25 for hers. This night, she pointed me in the direction of a guy who was selling the same one she uses. “How much?” I asked the guy. “Five dollars,” he replied. “I bought too many and I just want to get rid of them.” I whipped out that morning’s $5 from my pocket and said, “Sold!”

On the miracle scale, not quite loaves and fishes or water to wine, but kinda quirky. I think it’s called serendipity.

©2012 Jim Hagarty

I like to watch videos on the Internet. I spend an hour or two late at night doing that. The range of subjects I follow varies, almost randomly, over a kind of vast array of things. A lot of politics. Hockey. Discoveries of statues on Mars, supposed evidence of time travel, what Ancient Rome really looked like, and history. Lots of history. Videos of great musicians and of animal rescues. And Got Talent shows.

Recently, I’ve been bitten by the ghost-hunter craze, because scaring myself half to death in the middle of the night while I sit all alone seems like a reasonable thing to do. I saw one of the creepiest ones I’ve ever seen the other night where the spirit explorer was going through an old haunted house. He came up to a door to a room and someone was obviously, frantically, trying to open that door from inside the room, turning the knob and pulling on it. The brave ghost hunter ran to the door and flung it open. There was no one inside the room.

So, I went outside for a breath of fresh air and to collect my frazzled thoughts and darned if there weren’t ghosts running around all over our backyard. I dashed back to the safety of my couch.

It was exactly midnight.

Suddenly, there was a knock on our front door. It was a persistent knock but not a loud one. Almost as if whoever was knocking didn’t really want the occupants of the house to hear it.

But then the doorbell rang. Followed by several more knocks, a bit louder now and more insistent. Then more doorbell.

I don’t mind sharing that I was freaking right out by this time. In a panic, I woke up another family member and the two of us went to the door. To find a police officer there.

As it turned out, he was seeking a suspicious character and he saw someone in our backyard. Could he have a look back there.

I told him it was I who had been behind the house just then.

I forgot to tell him I had been busy back there fighting off a bunch of scary ghosts.

And how they all looked like suspicious characters to me.

©2023 Jim Hagarty

I had an interview with my dietitian on Monday. The consultation was very useful but I became confused with the various mixed messages she kept sending me.

I should have taken a notebook and pen with me and written a few things down because since I’ve arrived back home, I have been unclear about a few details regarding my way ahead food-wise.
I could be wrong but I believe she advised me to drink at least eight glasses of pop a day and consume two family-size bags of potato chips weekly (not daily).

I am also to eat one pound of bacon every two days, nothing but white bread, and if possible, a medium-sized (not large) slice of chocolate cake with every meal.

It is also important that I eat at least one cherry pie every week and to treat myself, a cherry cheesecake once a month. (If you get too serious about your diet, you won’t keep it up.)

A bag of chocolate chip cookies should round out my weekly menu and between meals, I should aim to eat a chocolate bar, but not worry if I miss once in a while.

It is also apparently vital that I have a bagful of caramel popcorn (all to myself) while I am watching TV three or maybe four times a week (she was not very clear on this point).

Pancakes and sausages for breakfast on Saturdays and Sundays but I am to use real maple syrup only, none of the fake stuff. This is important.

Oh, and I believe she said I was to eat as much pizza as possible every week, maybe three or four times, but no more than seven toppings on any one pizza. Also, I should work in three or four visits to hamburger joints every seven days for the protein.

I hope I haven’t forgotten anything.

Oh yes, I did.

I am supposed to have one carrot a week – no more.

At our next meeting, I am going to ask her to clarify some of these items to make sure I have them right. We will be talking about exercise at that session but when the subject came up on Monday, she frowned. I have a feeling she is going to advise me against it.

I am willing to do whatever she tells me to.

©2014 Jim Hagarty

I ordered my meal in the restaurant and asked for a Coke. I expected a glass of pop but instead, the waitress delivered my order in an old-fashioned glass Coke bottle, a little skinnier than in the old days, maybe, but close enough. OMG, the clouds had parted and Heaven shone down upon me.

I have rattled on and on for decades about how Coke (or any pop) out of a can or plastic bottle tastes nothing like the Coke of my youth which came only in glass bottles. Now that was when a Coke was a Coke!

I couldn’t wait to lift this miracle to my lips and treat my taste buds to something they had been deprived of for so long. I raised the bottle, and let the first swig trickle down my throat like shallow creek water over rocks after a winter’s thaw. Glug and then a couple of more glugs.

Well, half in tears and full of emotion, I am here to report that this beautifully bottled Coke seemed to me to taste no different than the stuff that comes in cans and plastic containers. It was like finding out Paul McCartney really did die some time in the sixties and was replaced by a look-a-like. Or that the moon landing was staged somewhere in Arizona.

How could this possibly be? I am despondent. It is a cruel world. I was raised on the bottle. Now nothing makes sense anymore.

©2017 Jim Hagarty

I lost my keys and needed the key finder I was given at Christmas, but (and you know this is coming) I can’t find the key finder. I need a key finder finder.

So, for a month my keys were gone. That hurts. I had to beg keys from other family members who increasingly had a difficult time disguising their contempt.

“Did you search the couches?” I was asked.

“Of course I did,” I replied and under my breath, “What kind of knucklehead do you think I am?”

But just to be sure, I checked again. Nothing. Didn’t bother with the leather recliner. I never sit in it.

Another man, perhaps one who is not as tight as bark to a tree, as my mother used to say, would have borrowed the needed keys from family members and paid the price to have them reproduced.

That is not my way.

So I searched in every imaginable place on our property without any luck at all.

Finally, on Saturday, a smiling family member, sitting in the leather recliner, called my attention to something she was holding in her hands. She had my car keys. They had been buried down in the ridiculous folds of the recliner. The one I hadn’t checked.

I was happy at the discovery, of course, but also a little taken aback at the triumphant look on the face of the human key finder. She had told me several times to check the furniture. I did not completely follow instructions.

So I had a lengthy period of gloating to put up with, and I had it coming so let ‘er rip. Then that same family member got up from the recliner, walked away and said, “Now if I could only find my phone.” Immediately, I saw the phone, sitting right in the middle of the recliner seat. It had been under her, under her, … well, just under her.

So, lots of ha ha’s all around and all of a sudden I was the gloater and not the gloatee. I was fully enjoying my new status.

Then another family member entered the kitchen from outside and he was filled in on the startling developments of the past few minutes. He laughed derisively at the two family members who, it seemed to him, were degenerating into dottering old fools. I could see this sudden turn was not going to work to my advantage.

Then, I remembered a request this same family member had made of me that very, hot afternoon.

“Do you know where the oscillating fan is?” I was asked, as it was wanted for the shed. “I have searched everywhere. Do we even have one anymore?”

I wandered out to the garage but I knew it wasn’t out there. I was sure we still had one. My mind’s eye started to reveal a location. I went into the bedroom of said family member and there was the fan, sitting atop a bookshelf, where it has been for over a year.

So, I have lost track of who has gloater privileges in our house and who has none. I don’t know if other homes operate this way, but in ours, it is very important to stay one step ahead of the pack. You never want to look over your shoulder and see them gaining on you.

©2018 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