I am a 72-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don't deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather's blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.
You know, we all have experiences in life that we think of as good or bad, but not many of us have found ourselves inside a whale and somehow lived to tell about it.
Michael Packard, 56, a Massachusetts commercial lobster diver was seriously injured Friday morning when he was caught in the mouth of a humpback whale feeding off Race Point, his sister said.
“I felt this huge bump and everything went dark,” Packard said. “And then I felt around and I realized there was no teeth. And then I realized, ‘Oh my God I’m in a whale’s mouth … and he’s trying to swallow me.'”
I’m not sure what the poor diver did at that point but had I been in this situation, I am sure I would have been concerned.
“Then all of a sudden he went up to the surface and just erupted and started shaking his head. I just got thrown in the air and landed in the water,” he said. “I was free and I just floated there. I couldn’t believe it.”
Fortunately, humpback whales do not appear to favor lobster fishermen.
Imagine you are bdelloid rotifer. You’ve been taking a good long nap for the past 24,000 years and then some pesky scientists come along and wake you up. The meddlesome jerks. You couldn’t be blamed if you reacted kind of grumpily to this.
But now you’re awake, what is your first priority? A nice warm shower? A hearty breakfast? Some sunbathing, perhaps?
Nope. If you are a rotifer that has spent the past 24,000 years frozen in the permafrost of Siberia, the first activity you want to get right at is sex. I guess 24,000 years of no sex might make a tiny, multicellular, freshwater creature such as a rotifer kind of randy.
In fact, once revived, these little guys got busy reproducing right away. Not much foreplay was witnessed.
“We revived animals that saw woolly mammoths,” Russian scientist Stas Malavin told the New York Times. “Which is quite impressive.”
However, the poor revived rotifers came close but are in second place when it comes to longest frozen creature. The title of longest nap goes to the nematode. In 2018, scientists revived some of the microscopic worms – also yanked out of the Siberian permafrost – that had been frozen for 42,000 years.
Woken up against their will, my guess is the nematodes took a look around at the world in 2018 and begged to be allowed to go back to sleep. A few, however, might stick around to join extreme right-wing political movements, the views of which, coincidentally, have been underwater and frozen, also for 42,000 years.
The world is watching us all these days, it seems. Literally watching. This matters not to a fine upstanding young man like myself who obeys all ten commandments every day and would follow ten more if somebody was to command them. In fact, I wish somebody would.
But even a saint can get tripped up now and then, I suppose. And so it was with me when a big red steel dumpster was delivered to the business next door to our house. Each day, employees of the store tossed in refuse of every description until after week or so, the thing was filled to overflowing.
Around this time, we had bought a new firebowl for the backyard. It came in a massive cardboard box and was encased in brittle white foam. When it was unpackaged and assembled, the firebowl stood there on the patio looking great but the big white slab of foam leaned forlornly against the house. How the heck was I going to get rid of that thing?
As it turns out, the Universe had delivered the answer right on time. The steel garbage bin next door. So one recent late night, when everyone was in bed and there seemed to be no lights on in any of the neighbours’ houses, I grabbed the foam slab and snuck over to the next-door business. I tossed it high in the air and it landed on the very top of the already-too-full bin. It stuck out, kind of like the cherry on a sundae.
I snuck back inside my home without being detected. But every day from then on, until the bin was removed and unloaded, I worried about the slab of foam and felt very guilty about adding it to my neighbour’s trash. I had even thought of returning to the bin and fetching it back again some night but worried I would be seen and reported for stealing from the dumpster. I breathed a little easier when it was finally taken away.
Yesterday, it was brought back empty to the business, to be once again filled up.
Today, I happened to be over at the business, talking to the owner, and I remarked on the sign he had posted on his door announcing that his establishment was being monitored 24 hours a day by video surveillance.
“In fact, we even have a camera set up outside,” he said, pointing to a little wandering eye situated near the roof. It happened to be pointing directly at the big red steel garbage bin.
If there ever was a time for a joke, this was it.
“Oh, I am glad to see that,” I quipped. “I was thinking of going dumpster diving.”
The owner laughed. A little too long and a little too hard. And way too knowingly, it seemed to me. Like someone would who spends part of his days going over video surveillance footage.
I am spending today, going through the Commandments, trying to figure out which one covers great big slabs of hard white foam. So far, I haven’t seen anything that fits.
But chalk it up to my bad luck that the very first time in my 67 years that I ever did anything wrong, my evil deed would be captured on film.
Of course it would be. So, it’s back to the straight and narrow for me. You can bet your big red dumpster on it.
I’ve been getting a lot of help with my mental health this weekend from my favourite psychiatrists, Dr. Claw Hammer, Dr. Hans Sawyer and Dr. Shuv Hull (all of them Swedish).
Dr. Lief Rake made a brief appearance as did Dr. Finish Nailz (from Finland).
We held several sessions outdoors. Dug deep into my issues, cut through a lot of boardom and I think we pretty much nailed it.
I am feeling much better tonight. A few more sessions tomorrow.
All of these great mental-health professionals work for peanuts which works out well because Dr. Colm Poster just eats all that up. Sometimes I feel like they’re just shelling out, but it’s okay.
Not a news flash, but it rains a lot in Ireland and one time when I was there, I saw a painter painting a storefront in the pouring rain. It wasn’t raining too heavily and the part he was painting was probably not in threat of getting very soggy, but the thought of painting in the rain brought a smile to my face. Dancing in the rain, maybe, but painting?
Being of Irish descent and prone to exaggeration, I have now extrapolated this little scene into a general theory which I often mention to people. When the subject of Ireland comes up, I always work into the conversation the “fact” that it rains so much in Ireland the painters have to paint in the rain. All because I saw one guy do it.
So, please forgive me Irish people, for “painting” you with an unflattering brush.
I especially beg forgiveness in light of the fact that on Friday, I painted my shed in the rain. It wasn’t raining when I started the job but halfway through, it started to come down. I cleaned up my brushes, roller, etc., but within an hour, the rain stopped. The sun even peeked out from the clouds. So, I took out all my equipment again, ventured out to the shed, felt the walls to see how dry or wet they were, and started up painting again.
After a few minutes, the rain started again, but I didn’t want to quit. I was determined to get this done. I painted over some wet surfaces so I hope the whole thing doesn’t peel right off by Wednesday.
Did you know that it rains so much in Canada, some fools have been known to paint in the rain? It’s true. I saw a Canadian guy do it once.
There are a lot of things in life, I will freely admit, that I know next to nothing about. Examples of this spring readily to mind. Sailing (never been on sailboat), love triangles or quadrangles or however those things go, bull riding (not to be confused with bull writing, about which I do know a bit), and grandparenting.
But maybe the biggest mystery to me has always been money laundering. Maybe because I have never had any money, I have had no need to launder it, whatever that is.
However, in the life experience I have had, I have heard rumours about small businesses that serve as fronts for organized crime and money laundering. They never do any business, have no customers, and yet never close up shop. Hmmm.
I’ve even heard it said some mom and pop corner stores are involved in this and today, I think I finally got some proof. As I approached the counter and cash register in one of these variety “stores”, I noticed a jug of hand sanitizer and a big plastic bowl next to it, filled with a clear liquid. And in that liquid was cold, hard and very wet cash. Bills, coins, the works. A steel tongs lay by the bowl, with which the man there, standing behind a clear plexiglass screen (probably bulletproof), was taking currency from his customers and putting it in the liquid.
I was shocked to see him so brazenly laundering money, as though he believed he would never get caught. I wondered if he was paying off the police so they would look the other way. Another indication that he was up to no good was the fact that, amazingly, he was wearing a bandit’s mask.
Not only had I never seen a money laundering operation before, but now I was looking at an actual money launderer and he didn’t fit whatever image I might have had in my mind for such a criminal. There was a tall woman behind the counter, watching proceedings. Now she did sort of look like the type.
I don’t know what to do. If I report them to the police, and they are in on it, what trouble might I get into?
So I left the store. Shaken, but maybe a little wiser. Also, unable to process what I had just witnessed. So I went back to doing what I had been doing before I entered the place which was daydreaming about love triangles.
Whatever they are.
(Update 2024: This story probably made a little more sense when it was written, at the start of the recent Covid-19 pandemic.)
Our ironing board fell on my head this morning. Don’t worry, the ironing board is fine, though I’ve spent most of the day a bit wobbly on my feet as a result of the blow to my cranium.
As I usually do in such situations, I looked on the event as a teachable moment. You can either get mad over a matter like this or just laugh it off.
I recommend getting mad. Profanity helps, preferably in a loud voice. It also pays to hit the ironing board as that will teach it a lesson.
Next comes the search for a culprit – there must be a culprit – someone who left the ironing board in such a precarious state as to easily fall on my head when I was looking the other way.
But it’s amazing, in a four-person household, how no one has touched the ironing board in weeks, in spite of the fact that people leave the house in the morning dressed in very neat clothes that have obviously been pressed by a hot iron. I know for certain that I am not the culprit as the ironing board and I are practically strangers. I used it once to flatten out a pair of dress socks about 30 years ago but concluded the effort was not worth the reward and gave up the practice. Besides, I never leave the house, neat or otherwise.
I will get to the bottom of this, never resting till it’s all been smoothed over and not a wrinkle is left to worry me. I fully intend to press the issue and if I get a little hot under the collar, so be it.
Because if I don’t find the answer to this latest unexpected object to smash me on the noggin, these sorts of incidents will probably in-crease.
Jim Hagarty’s neighbours are a prosperous gang and he is happy for them.
One neighbour has a big new pickup truck, a $70,000 pricetag but he got a break on it. What a wonderful machine.
Two doors down, another neighbour bought a beautiful motorhome last summer. Hagarty had a tour inside. He speculates it comes with room service. Or should.
Across the street, one man has a Corvette. It’s used, but still, it’s a CORVETTE! The neighbour beside him has a shiny, fancy motorcycle. Hagarty is not sure of the make but it’s extremely noisy so that must be good.
Still another neighbour directly across the street has a widescreen TV that appears to cover one whole wall of his living room. If the blinds are open, and even if they aren’t, Hagarty can see all the shows his neighbour watches. He seems to be into action movies.
Next door, just yesterday, Hagarty smelled some wonderful cooking aromas coming from those neighbours’ verandah and he looked over to see that the couple there has a very fancy new barbecue. Not sure if it has a sink and running water, but it might.
Farther down the street, in the driveway, sits a new, candy apple red Kia Soul. A few doors to the east, is a new Toyota Rav4. Black. Very sleek.
Hagarty is not envious of any of these people and the proof of that is the fact that he discusses all these glorious new acquisitions with his neighbours when he sees them out and about.
But he worries that they are jealous of him. Because he has a brand new plastic pooper scooper with which to gather up his doggie’s offerings on their twice-daily walks. It is a marvel of modern engineering. Black. Easy to use. Very efficient.
And not one of his neighbours has made any comment to Hagarty at all about his new device. When people will not even acknowledge something new you have, you know they are burning up with envy.
To be honest, Hagarty is a little disappointed in this obvious character flaw in the spendthrifts living around him.
When I was 55 or so, I walked into a fast-food restaurant and placed an order. The kid who served me, who appeared hardly able to see over the counter, took the details of my simple request and then asked me, “Would you like a senior Coke?”
In the few seconds I had to process this request before I gave my answer, I pondered what on earth a senior Coke might be, having never before been offered one. Was it a Coke served by a little old man named Perkins wearing a beanie hat with the restaurant name on it after he emerged from a small room where some senior citizen servers were kept, or was it a Coke that had been formulated in 1945 and, like a bottle of fine wine, was just now ready to be uncorked? Or, would a portion of the cost of this Coke be given by the restaurant to a benefit organized to help needy seniors in the community?
I was confused.
So I asked, “What is a senior Coke?”
Well, as it turned out, it was a small Coke given for free to seniors.
Which begged the next question.
Why was I, a young whippersnapper still wet behind the ears, being offered a senior Coke?
Perhaps the youngster who offered me this thought I might want it for some old guy standing right behind me who he mistakenly thought was my grandfather. I looked behind me to see no one there.
“Yes,” I finally decided. “I would like a senior Coke.” It wasn’t my fault the kid had screwed up so badly.
Fourteen years later, I don’t even have to ask for a senior Coke anymore. They just plop one down on my tray like they might include a toy if I was a kid.
But there were a few years there when my status as a bona fide senior was in doubt. This restaurant had other specials for seniors and if I wanted those, it took some planning.
I would stand back and size up the servers. If a kid took my order, I was a shoo-in as he or she had not likely ever seen anyone who looked so ancient. But if the server was an older adult, I might have to produce five types of identification before I could score a cheaper hamburger and fries.
So, I would hang back, and hope to get a younger server. I got pretty good at that over time.
Alas, probably because shysters such as I were ripping them off too badly, the restaurant dropped all special pricing for old folks except for the senior Coke.
But it’s a just world and there are always compensations. A few years ago, they introduced a junior menu. It feels a bit strange ordering a junior burger and a senior Coke, as though one might cancel out the other, but so far, so good.
Besides, I have a ball at night playing with the free toys.
I’ve lost interest in hockey and probably couldn’t even make the cut in the beer belly league now. Same with baseball. Never was big on soccer, tennis, bowling. I was terrible at football.
But there is one sport I am thinking of taking up and it’s one I think I might even be good at. That is the sport of shin-kicking and over the weekend, a Vancouver man was crowned world champion at the Cotswold Olimpicks in Chipping Camden, England.
I’ve always been good at kicking and am usually mad enough to want to hurt somebody’s shins. And here’s the clincher: I have been to Chipping Camden. If that isn’t a sign for me to take up this cool activity, I don’t know what is.
The sport is 400 years old. It involves kicking your opponent’s shins as you try to throw him to the ground. That must hurt, you say? Maybe, but participants do get to shove hay down the legs of their pants for protection.
Growing up on the farm, it seemed at haying time I always had hay in my pants. The sport was waiting for me.
I’m a bit disappointed the shin-kickers have gone soft over the past 200 years though. They used to cap the toes of their boots with metal but that is against the rules now.
Today’s shin-kickers might be wimps but with some practice, I think I could take ’em. Yes, wind me up and I would gladly kick the shin out of all of them.
