Author: Jim Hagarty

My father-in-law was a very good pastor, artist and woodworker. We inherited seven or eight of his big, heavy woodshop machines and have had them in the shed for the past year. A few months ago, it became clear to me that they would be better situated in our finished and heated garage where we can make a proper workshop.

Since then, I have fretted and worried about how this transfer of machines would be accomplished. I knew I needed help but foresaw a number of problems with the project. Broken windows, scratched doors, injured helpers, damaged machinery. Where would we get a dolly we would need to carry the heavier pieces?

I wonder, if I could put all that anxiety together, whether or not it would take up two hours or three or four. Maybe.

Tonight, my son and a bunch of his 17-year-old friends happened to be over at our place for burgers and pop. Afterwards, I asked them if they could help me move the machines, thinking they might get three or four of the lighter ones moved. Sure, they said. And they did.

All the machines were moved, settled, done in 10 minutes. Then they hopped in the van and drove off. Nothing broken or scratched, no pulled muscles, no dolly needed. They just got together and got it done, as though they were doing the dishes after supper.

A few minutes later, I took the dog for a walk and I noticed that old familiar tension behind my eyes and wistful tears sitting there. Oh, to be 17 again. To not look ahead and behind. To not think there are things you can’t do. To live every day as an adventure with your pals. To be forever in the moment.

What happens to us to take that away? Do we get too cynical, or too bored or too tired?

Last year I took a van load of those guys to Port Huron, Michigan, for the day. It was the most fun I have had in years, just listening to the banter, the joking, the expressions of joy and anticipation of good things to come. The talk of cars and girls and music. The finer things in life.

©2013 Jim Hagarty

It was decided the grackles were unwelcome and had to leave our property. They were eating us into poverty (four dollars per day in suet cakes alone), they were crapping on everything – cars, lawnchairs, picnic table, laundry on the line, they were aggressive when the food supply was low and would bang on our windows to smarten us up, and they chased away the birds we used to have and would like to see again.

So, as I often do these days, I enrolled in a short course at the University of YouTube and after only one video, I knew what I had to do. The guy in the video is probably the smartest man on Earth. He said, brilliantly, that if you want to stop attracting nuisance birds, quit feeding them. What a concept. I wish I could hire that guy as my life coach. I bet he knows other stuff too.

The next morning, I put out no bird feed at all and before long, all the feeders were empty. The grackles were getting anxious in the same way I do when there are only crumbs left in my potato chip bag and all the stores are closed.

I watched with delight as the hours passed and the grackle population dwindled. Good riddance!

About that time, I was sitting in a lawnchair under a maple tree when I heard a hell of a racket on a branch above me. Without even looking, I knew what it was. It was a baby grackle wanting its mama to feed it.

“Fat chance,” said Mama. “That old miser Jim has taken away all our food.” Those are the very words she used.

“So now I hate mamas and babies,” I thought. Just then, she led her little one out of the tree and down to our water hole where she taught the yungun to drink.

I watched the pathetic scene for a few more minutes until I could stand no more.

The Hagarty Conservatory for Grackles will open for business on Monday morning. There will be teeshirts for sale with a picture of an unsmiling me with grackle poop on my head (it has happened.)

Everyone is welcome but whatever you do …

FEED THE BIRDS!!!!

©2023 Jim Hagarty

You might not know it to look at me, but I am a rebel. I have been all my life. I do not like authority. I hate people telling me what to do.

So when I was caught for speeding about 15 years ago, I was some sort of mad. I paid the fine, whatever amount it was, and made a promise that this was never going to happen to me again.

Around the same time, I returned to my car in a parking lot to see a ticket for letting my meter run out. I do remember paying a $15 fine for that. Again with a promise to never go through that again. Not one more single penny will I ever pay in fines to the city I was born in.

I have made three solemn vows in my life. My wedding vows, my speeding vows and my parking vows. So far, all three are holding up pretty well.

And this is the ultimate rebellion. To refuse to get caught breaking the law by being determined to never break the law. Yes, a few other drivers want to run me off the road when I travel 80 kmh in an 80 kmh zone. But they just don’t appreciate or even know how a true rebel works. They probably think a real rebel drives 120 in an 80 zone or takes a parking ticket out from under his wiper and puts in on the car beside him, assuming that person will pay the fine without even examining the ticket.

To be a scofflaw is easy. Any frivolous man can do that. But inside the chest of a real rebel beats a heart that is committed to obeying the rules. To defeat the system by co-operating with every bit of it.

I just smile now when I drive by a peace officer who is pointing his radar gun at my car and at the officious official marauding the parking lots looking for expired meters.

I am a rebel’s rebel and these poor souls don’t even know the extent of my revenge.

©2021 Jim Hagarty

I’m always a little embarrassed at the dollar store checkout when I set down my half dozen chocolate bars on the counter. I make my standard joke about my doctor having diagnosed me with a severe chocolate deficiency, worst case he’s ever seen. The kid thinks I’m serious and doesn’t laugh.

But my days of feeling guilty about my addiction are over. In fact, in light of new information, I will now feel guilty if I don’t indulge in the yummy stuff.

A new study says eating two chocolate bars a day can lower heart disease and stroke risk. These findings came from a 12-year study of 25,000 men and women in Norfolk, England, the happiest town on Earth. Also, 300 dentists have practices there.

Last year, an American study found chocolate can fight obesity and weight gain. And the brains of chocolate eaters are healthier.

But best of all, scientists at the University of Calgary found that chocolate improves the memories of snails. This is great because eating chocolate will help my pets Pokey, Speedy and Stop Sign, remember to put away their snail toys at night. Unless they’ve just been pretending to forget all this time. Snails can be sneaky like that. I just hope they didn’t fool the researchers.

©2015 Jim Hagarty

So, Mom jumps in the little blue Chevy and heads for the grocery store. A few minutes later, Dad crawls into the much bigger van and goes to the store too, having thought of a few things that he needs. He doesn’t know which store Mom has gone to.

Keeping track of Mom’s whereabouts can keep Dad busy some days.

His shopping done, Dad comes out of the store to discover that his van is missing. Most likely stolen. His laptop was inside, so he is unhappy.

He wanders the store parking lot, desperately searching for the van. No luck. However, he notices a little blue Chevy sitting there and checks the licence plate.

“We’ll I’ll be,” he says. “That’s our car.”

As it did for the man who stayed up all night to watch the sun rise, it finally dawns on him. Mom left the store, saw the van, jumped in and rode away, thinking that was the vehicle she drove to the store.

Married life might not always be a laugh a minute, but it is very rarely dull.

©2012 Jim Hagarty

Well, friends, my ship has finally come in. I have been waiting on the shore for many years now, scanning the horizon for any sign of my ship, and I have now caught sight of it.

Some of you might have noticed how glowingly I sometimes write about one of my heroes, Warren E. Buffett. I think he is a genius and a good guy.

Today, Warren sent me an email explaining how, as an American business magnate, investor and philanthropist, he is giving away some of the billions he has earned to randomly selected people throughout the world. Somehow, my name was chosen.

“I am the most successful investor in the world. I believe strongly in ‘giving while living’ and using my wealth to help people,” Buffett wrote.

All I have to do is respond to Warren’s email and I will soon be the lucky recipient of $1.5 million.

Yahoo!

I knew this day was coming, though others doubted my faith in a fulsome future.

Buffett is simply the best.

©2020 Jim Hagarty

Apparently there are a lot of levels in Hell and the worse you were here on Earth, the farther down you go, closer to the fire.

I hope, and in my prayers tonight I will recommend, that the person who invented the “gable-top” milk carton spends eternity hopping around on the hot coals he or she deserves because this little carton is truly evil.

I wrestled with another one today as I sat at my table in a sub shop and if it hadn’t been for the prominent sign over the door which read, “No Screaming Allowed”, I would have let loose.

A person needs the hands and fingers of a brain surgeon to open these stupid outfits and unfortunately, my paws are almost as big and delicate as a bear’s mitts.

I know there is a way to open these awful things as I have been shown all the tricks many times by someone several decades younger than me. But he has always demonstrated it so quickly I could never quite get it, like a magician reluctant to show you his whole method.

So, there I sat today, ripping and tearing at this horrible little box like the aforementioned bear might have had he been in the sub shop at the time. (Had he wandered in and saw the look on my face, I think he would have run away, maybe even screaming, in violation of the sub shop code.)

By the time my milk was accessible, it was sitting in a pathetically mangled container and being chocolate milk, it was then I realized it needed to be shaken up. So I tried to close the wreck and give it a shake.

Milk spewed everywhere. When I finally did get it open again and put it to my lips, the milk dribbled down my face and onto my jeans.

You know, I hope I do go to Hell so I can hop around next to the idiot who invented this abomination and spend my eternity screaming in his ear, official policy be damned.

I really do.

©2013 Jim Hagarty

I have decided not to take my .357 Magnum Revolver to bed with me any more. For years, I have slept more peacefully knowing I could take action if and when (only a matter of time) my neighbour breaks into my house to try to steal my TV. He was over once and admired the 42-incher sitting in the corner of my living room and I knew in that moment that he would sneak into my place some night and take it.

I love that TV and can’t imagine life without it.

What has made me decide to keep my pistol in the fridge from now on instead is the news that an Illinois man accidentally shot himself while dreaming that his home was being broken into. On April 10, police arrived at the home of Mark M. Dicara, 62, and found him with a gunshot wound to the leg.

Dicara said he had a dream that someone was breaking into his home, retrieved his gun and shot at who he thought was the intruder, only to shoot himself, which caused him to wake from the dream.

The bullet went through Dicara’s leg and lodged itself into his bedding.

I wouldn’t want a bullet in my leg but I would pay holy hell if I ever shot up my bedding. And I won’t bore you with any details of some of the horrible dreams I have some nights but there is bound to be a firefight at 3 a.m. in my bedroom one of these times.

My neighbour can have my damn TV. I’m tired of worrying about it. In fact, I am going to call him tomorrow and help him move it to his place.

I might even lend him my revolver in the event some other neighbour starts cooking up plans to steal it from him.

Instead, I will spend my evenings watching the 19-inch flatscreen that sits on top of our filing cabinet.

Nobody, not even me, wants that piece of crap.

©2023 Jim Hagarty

Six months ago, our family enjoyed a Sunday supper at home of delicious Chinese food from our favourite restaurant. When the meal ended, five fortune cookies were randomly given out to us all and one by one, we went around the table, cracking them open and reading the messages on the tiny papers contained within them.

The ritual started with my son to my left and continued around the table till it was my turn. I cracked open my cookie, to discover there was nothing inside. This led to much hilarity and questions from me about what this could possibly mean. To this day, those questions have gone unanswered.

A few weeks ago, we sat down again to another feast of fried rice, egg rolls, guy ding and chicken balls and the cookie reveal was once again saved till the last. One by one, each of the five family members read out their fortune till it came to me. I cracked open my cookie to find, once again, no fortune within.

How could this happen when the cookies, on both occasions, were distributed at random? Surely, the message-less cookie could have been delivered to someone other than me.

So, I am left to wonder once again at my luck or lack of it. But being an optimistic person who always looks on the bright side of things, I brought out my Last Will and Testament the next day to see if there was a loophole or two that needed fixing. I did notice one or two of my most treasured possessions that I failed to gift to anyone, specifically my favourite baseball cap that looks as though it was recovered from a Kentucky coal mine that had been closed for a hundred years.

But try as I might, I am unable to get past my repeated misfortune. The other members of my family have gone on their merry ways, but I am left in a Chinese stew.

However, I think I do have some explanation now as to how it is, after seven decades of striving, I have managed somehow to avoid accumulating the fortune I always thought I would surely have by now. It was never in the cards for me. Not even in the cookies.

©2023 Jim Hagarty

I like the woman who cleans my teeth every few months. She is older than the other hygienists and, in my opinion, more gentle.
She is also interesting. Whether that’s because she has a little more life experience than the others or a variety of interests that happen to coincide with mine, I cannot say.

So, when she was finishing up with me today, I asked her how her garden was coming along. We have that in common. She said she was having a few problems with moles digging things up and she is looking for a way to send them packing.

At that point, I fell asleep. I had stayed up too late last night pondering the wonders of the universe. When I came to, my hygienist was still talking.

“There are so many holes,” she said. “We’ll have to fill them all in.

“I don’t want to use poison.”

Now, I couldn’t have been unconscious for more than a minute or two but when I woke up, I forgot we had been discussing moles in her garden.

I thought she was still talking about my teeth. I immediately freaked out about all these cavities I apparently have now and it will be a frosty day in July before I let them inject poison in my gums.

Call me hard to get along with, but I hate poison.

©2024 Jim Hagarty