Author: Jim Hagarty

For more proof that the 20th Century just sort of snuck by me when I wasn’t looking I offer the fact that I do not own a power saw. However, I do have three lovely handsaws for wood and two hacksaws for metal and everything that gets cut around our place gets cut by these marvels of modern science.

With those saws my kids and I have built a sturdy little clubhouse and treehouse along with a bunch of other paraphernalia that is needed by the average homeowner. For example, I just cut up an old picnic table into one-foot-long chunks for our fire pit using a handsaw. It was a time-consuming project but I did a bit every day till it was done.

Among the biggest projects was a six-foot-high cedar privacy fence we erected around the back of our double lot. Some neighbours and relatives got so frustrated watching me build this thing (it took me three months) with a handsaw that they started offering their own power saws to help me along. I would just hold up both hands and show them that each of them still sported four fingers and a thumb as my counterargument for using their weapons of man destruction.

My father-in-law insisted I borrow his saw which I did and after two or three cuts, gave it back. For one thing, it made a lot of noise and I didn’t want to put the neighbours through that. The other thing is I am lefthanded and all these saws are made for righties which means the blade, instead of facing away from my body parts, is actually facing into them. So one little slip and I might be walking around on one less leg. We had a power saw on the farm and I used it but was just more comfortable with the handsaws.

My Dad and I would cut logs with a long crosscut saw and I came to like the rhythm and peace that comes from “letting the saw do the work.”

I will admit that sometimes, a good chainsaw or table saw would come in pretty handy but I always look at the size of my project and the cost of the machines and decide it would be cheaper and better for me – exercise-wise – to hack away with my handsaws.

I do own a jigsaw but I hate it. It goes through its little blades faster than my dog Toby goes through kibble and even though it is small, it scares the sawdust out of me sometimes.

So if you have any non-precision cutting to be done, just drop it off and I will get it back to you – some time this century. You’ll know our place when you see it. It’s the one with a very crooked cedar fence.

©2011 Jim Hagarty

You know, this is just me. I have my own way of doing things.

For example, whenever I try to break into a car and steal it, or at least steal whatever I can find of value inside it, the first thing I do is check to make sure there is no one inside the vehicle. I do this because I am a Class A chickenshit. Somebody might punch me in the nose and that would probably hurt. I do not like being hurt.

So, I exercise caution during every one of my attempted car heists.

It surprises me to learn, however, that not everyone in the same business as I am, is quite so careful. Take Stephen Titland of Florida, for example. The other day, he was busy going down the street pulling on car latches, hoping to find one open. So far, so good, although he was caught on a surveillance camera trying to get into seven cars.

But Stephen is nothing if not persistent. The next day he went out again in search of an open car. And, EUREKA! He found one. The door opened.

I always rejoice too when that happens for me.

But life is funny. And we all know the old saying that we might not always be happy if we end up getting what we wish for. This was the case with Stephen. The car he managed to open, for example, was occupied. There were several people inside it. Oh oh.

To make matters worse, those people were all police officers. Several members of a Tampa sheriff’s Strategic Targeted Area Response Team.

This was the equivalent of a large bass jumping into a fisherman’s boat. Good ole Stephen saved the law enforcement people the trouble of baiting their hooks and casting their lines.

I can sympathize with Mr. Titland. That is just the sort of thing that would happen to me and probably will someday.

It’s hard for a 49-year-old would-be burglar like Stephen to catch a break these days.

Damn hard.

©2017 Jim Hagarty

Awareness is often slow in coming and it sometimes arrives like a hammer blow rather than a feather brush.

All my life I have teased older people about their advanced years believing they were fine with it. They chuckled and others within earshot did too.

A man I know wears a ball cap with “100” printed on the front. I think he got it at the centennial of the International Plowing March. So I have told him on numerous occasions in front of our mutual friends that I wish I had a cap with my age printed on it. A crowd-pleaser of a comment, it seemed.

My cleverness was confirmed with every such witty quip.

Today I was dealing with a couple of men from the gas company. One of them was in his 30s. Somehow the topic turned to hockey and I reflected on how the game was played in the 1800s when it first became organized.

“Were you at some of those games?” the young man asked me in front of his partner. My jaw dropped and I smiled, or grimaced perhaps. It hurt big time.

And I was struck by two things. One, that the young man who was a total stranger to me thought I would be okay with being called old. Plus, he had judged me based solely on my appearance. And having been so identified as old. I felt old all day. Aches and pains, shuffling, limping, wistful.

The young man did me a favour. I owe my plowing match friend an apology. My hope is he never hurt like I did all day long.

©2015 Jim Hagarty

Over the seven decades I have been wandering around this planet, I have sometimes wondered if I have lived my life all wrong.

I wait as patiently as I can when the service in a shop or bank seems a bit slow and I even let people cut in in front of me without (much) complaint. I am not sure that this behaviour can be attributed to my being a nice guy, a Canadian, or a sucker. No matter, it seems I was raised this way. And it ain’t easy to get too far from your raisin’.

But if I had spent 70 years in Tennessee, I might be a different guy altogether.

I submit as my evidence, your honour, the story of a 53-year-old man in Knoxville, Tennessee, who got agitated because it was taking too long for him to get the food he ordered at a Little Ceasar’s Pizza. After being told he would have to wait a few minutes, the man left the store and returned with an AK-47 in his hands. He demanded his pizza immediately.

I hope you don’t judge me for betraying a character flaw of mine but sometimes I too have felt like doing something dramatic to get my fast food a little faster.

But the world is still a good place, and so is Tennessee, a state I’ve been to and enjoyed. Another person in the store who had already gotten her order handed the machine-gun toting man her pepperoni pizza and he fled the scene before police arrived but not before threatening several people at the restaurant, because when you’re brave, it pays to terrify people who aren’t carrying an AK-47.

One person commenting on this story said, “A pizza does not bake faster because you point a gun at it.” This is basic science and good information to always remember, I would suggest.

Now, our gun-toting hillbilly faces a $50,000 fine and many years in prison and needs $90,000 for bail, all because he did not want to wait an extra ten minutes for a $6 pizza.

I know I shouldn’t mock this poor fellow and the trap he has set for himself. It seems he wasn’t lucky, as I have been, to not be raised in a place where guns are worshipped and patience is scorned.

There have been times I wished I had more patience but not once have I ever wanted my very own machine gun.

©2021 Jim Hagarty

So my wife Barb hid behind a wall and stuck her leg out as I ran by. The arsenic in her stew had had no effect on me so she moved on to Plan B. I fell like a mighty oak against a wooden chair.

As I lay on the floor reading myself the Last Rites, our little dog Toby rushed to the scene and knew exactly what to do. He stuck his tongue down my left ear and oddly, it seemed to help. Toby’s Wax Removal Service is available for rental. Just Google it.

Barb finally set down the life insurance policy and then came over to assess the damage. I was bleeding from several wounds on my head. One of them was new having been inflicted by the chair.

Barb said I might need staples to close the gash. She went to the shed and came back with the roof staple gun. I protested as I didn’t want blood on my staple gun.

So my loving wife decided to treat it. She ran upstairs and came back with a bottle of cayenne pepper which she sprinkled liberally into the cut. I asked for another helping of her stew.

She then fetched some turpentine, windshield washer fluid, WD-40 and rubbing alcohol and when I wouldn’t drink the mixture, she poured it all over my head.

More stew, I screamed!

Toby moved on to my right ear.

Barb sent our daughter Sarah to the shed for some duct tape. She came back with a roll of white Gorilla tape. They use that tape to make repairs on the space shuttle.

Toby is my only friend. I would kiss him but he has a bad case of wax breath.

Help me!

©2015 Jim Hagarty

My neighbours are from Newfoundland. They are different. In a very wonderful way.

This summer, they wanted to take down a huge, overgrown evergreen tree in their front yard, close to their house, a tree that blocked a lot of the light from getting into their kitchen and living room. They called in a professional tree-removal company for an estimate.

“They wanted $1,200,” Dave told me. “Then my buddy said he’d take it down for free if he could have the wood. Free is a good price.”

So, one sunny Saturday morning, a group of Dave and Betty’s buddies showed up and two young fellas clambered up that tall tree like they were running up a hill. Off came the branches in a hurry while more buddies and half the neighbourhood showed up to help and/or to watch. Before long, out came a case of beer and everyone who wanted one was offered one.

Dave and Betty are the kind of people who ask nothing of you and yet, you want to do things for them. They are friendly and funny and though they have problems, they don’t complain. Taking down their tree became a block party and before long, that was the place to be. It somehow grew into a week-long affair as almost every day, someone would show up to do a bit more cleaning up, carrying away a truckload of wood or carting branches off to the dump.

I dropped around several times but felt badly that I had nothing much to contribute except a few lame jokes. Finally, one day, when everyone was gone and just Dave was there, I noticed he still had a few scraps of wood lying around. “You want me to take those for our fire pit?” I asked him. “Sure,” he replied. “I was going to have to take them to the dump.” I went home and got my wheelbarrow and was happy to go back and get the scraps. It felt great to be able to contribute to the tree-removal effort even if I was the last one to do so.

That is what happens when people are so likable. Other people like them and want to be around them and help them. Dave and Betty don’t ask for help. They don’t have to.

In contrast, we have other neighbours who are the polar opposite. One day I was walking my dog down the sidewalk past their house and was startled to hear the woman’s gravelly, angry voice yelling out her kitchen window, “Don’t you let that dog crap on my lawn.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “He won’t.”

To this day, I cross the street when I walk my dog rather than walk past her place. When she and her husband drive down the street past our house, I always wave if I am out. He waves back, she never does. Takes all kinds, I guess.

Years ago, my wife and I vacationed in Newfoundland. One Sunday morning, we went to a laundromat in the town we were staying in overnight and put our clothes into a washing machine. There were a few other people in there too. A man in his 30s came in, put his clothes into a washer, took a quick look around and left. Soon he came back with a tray of ice cream cones, one for every person in the laundromat. He went around the room distributing them, still having not spoken a word. Eventually he opened up and chatted with us all.

There are nice people everywhere. But there sure seems to be a lot of them in Newfoundland and down east, generally. They have a different outlook on life than we do in our hard-driving society of Ontario.

They work to live, not live to work.

©2011 Jim Hagarty

I have played guitar for 50 years, come 2019. I still play the same guitar I bought when I was learning to play in 1969. I am left handed and so is my classical guitar.

From the time I started, I was aware that the Rolls Royce of acoustic guitars is the Martin. Other amazing instruments have come along in the intervening years and some would say some of them surpass the Martin. But Martin got burned into my brain and I always have wanted to play one, if not own one.

I have seen dozens of Martins at the weekly jams I have gone to over the years but I had never played one: They were all for right-handed players.

That all changed on Saturday when I sat down at our regular jam next to a woman I had never met (and haven’t seen in the years since). She is left-handed, like me, and she was playing a left-handed, Martin steel-string acoustic, the instrument I have always dreamed about.

Eventually, after I mentioned my fantasy to her, she offered to let me play it so we switched guitars.

I have a left-handed steel string at home. It is a quality guitar, a Martin knock off. But here, in my hands, was the real thing.

The next song got going and I started playing my dream come true. I don’t know why and I don’t know how, but it was simply amazing. The responsiveness of the strings, the crispness and warmth of the sound, the ease of depressing the strings to the frets.

It was like a car lover finally getting behind the wheel of a Rolls Royce. An experience not soon to be forgotten, if never to be repeated.

It has been suggested I cash in some savings and treat myself to a Martin. And after my experience finally playing one, I did ask about the guitar at my music store. I could have gotten a 1967 Willie Nelson Martin for about $2,500.

I didn’t part with my money. I finally sorted that out and realized that if I really had wanted a Martin all these years, I would have bought one long ago. The fact that I didn’t do that tells me I didn’t really want one. I wanted a house. I got that. I wanted a red sportscar. Got it. I wanted a nice stereo. Ditto. And I wanted to see the world. Off I went.

When I learned guitar, I was soon finger-picking. Someone suggested that skill would easily transfer to a banjo. So for 50 years I have told everyone I want to own and learn to play a banjo.

Once again, that twangy “want” never happened.

Because, for me, it never was a real want. And now I believe, complain though we may, we usually end up with the things we really did want all along.

Wife, son, daughter.

Check, check, and check.

As Mick sang, we can’t always get what we want. But it is hard to be happy if we don’t see at least some of our real wants fulfilled. My fertile mind entertains my fantasies; my heart contains my true desires.

And I am forever grateful for my good fortune.

©2018 Jim Hagarty

Does this ever happen to you?

A close family member – wife, son, daughter – leaves the house, gets in the car and drives off. You say goodbye, have a good day, see you later.

A few minutes go by, and then arises the greatest racket from fire trucks, ambulances and police cruisers. Heading down the main street at lightning speed. You can see them out your kitchen window. They’re heading in the same direction your loved one just did.

And you think, “Oh my God. What if they were in an accident?”

There is an intersection not far from your home where, for some reason, there are a lot of fender benders at least and sometimes more serious crack ups.

Then your mind goes to all the horrible follow-up imaginings.

Will a police officer be knocking on your door in the next little while?

Instead, comes a text:

“Anything you want at the store?”

“Can I bring you a coffee?”

“I’m going to stay over at my friend’s tonight, Dad.”

You go sit in the recliner and hug the dog.

©2017 Jim Hagarty

I have been listening to modern country music on a local radio station the past couple of months and I am really enjoying it.

Seriously. No joking. I love it.

I’ve always loved old country and now I love the new. But I believe that the new music is having some strange effects on me and I am not sure what to do.

First off, I have a gigantic urge to buy a pickup truck. And it’s gotta be a Chevy. No furrin’ vehicles for me and not even a Ford or a Dodge. Just a good ole Chevy.

Next, I need to keep it off the highways and drive it only down dirt roads. That might be hard to do because all our non-paved roads are gravel, not dirt, but maybe I could find one north of Millbank somewhere. Someone might declare that a gravel road is a dirt road but I challenge those people to make a mud pie from a pile of gravel.

Then I need to find a girl. Yes, I said it, but I don’t really mean a girl, girl. I mean a young woman. Now, she needs to be little. Not sure why, but she does. Medium sized, plus sized – uh, uh. And purty. I need to find a purty little contray girl and drive around in my truck with her, down some dirt roads north of Millbank.

This girl, whom I will call baybay, needs to dress like a cowboy with hat and boots and jeans and lumberjack shirt during the day. She has to be tough as a grizzly bear and mean as a rattlesnake. However, when not behaving like a gunslinger on the main street of a dusty western town (Millbank), she needs to be ready for the beach in the summer. For that, she will have to wear cutoff blue jeans and either a halter top or tube top, her choice. Blonde hair. Long blonde hair. And she needs to rest her head on my chest at every opportunity.

In the evening, my young cowboy/lumberjack/partial nudist will dress up prettier than a princess except she’ll have way more class than a real one.

Truck, girl, what else? Booze. Plenty of it. Beer. More beer. Hose Cuervo tequila. Jack Daniels whisky. A margareta or 10. Pour me another one.

Oh, and if the truck’s in the shop, an old car will do. Chevy, of course. An el Camino, ideally. (Kids, ask your grandparents what that is.)

I feel an urge I have never had before to go fishing. All day long. But before I head out, I need to get down on my knees and say a prayer to the man upstairs. To thank him for the truck and the girl, the booze and the fishing gear and the dirt road north of Millbank.

After a day of fishin’, I will head for a bar. Maybe get in a fight. Probably win it. Maybe not. It really doesn’t matter as good ole boys such as me all love and forgive each other.

I’m gonna throw a lot of coins in the jukebox even though such a machine hasn’t been seen in these parts for 30 years.

When I stagger home, I will sit on my front porch for a while and look at the stars. Go kiss my truck and then crawl in with my lumberjack/little girl/princess for some kissin’ and who knows what else.

But I can’t stay up too late. Got a busy day tomorrow. I want to listen to great country tunes on the radio by Garth Brooks, George Jones, Conway Twitty, Johnny Cash – even though they aren’t played on the radio any more. Maybe satellite radio.

If I’m feeling adventurous, I might even listen to some Springsteen or Bon Jovi. And I will need to bang out some tunes of my own on my old guitar. I don’t know why my guitar has to be old, but oh well. So are my truck and my car.

I will write some songs and in the songs I will plunk as many American states and cities as I can, but only the country ones – Texas, Alabama, Tennessee. No New York or California. Memphis, Nashville, Fort Worth. No Chicago, no Boston.

So, that’s about it. Can’t think of much else I’m feeling after eight weeks of modern country music except that I’m grateful for the country I live in and feel sorry for any idiot who might criticize it to my face.

Oh yeah, on my to do list: buy a horse and a big dog. Bring ‘em home in my truck. I just can’t wait to get that truck.

Also, wish I was smart as my Dad. Mom made the best pies ever.

Except for Anna Mae’s in Millbank.

©2016 Jim Hagarty

I stopped at an interesting, colourful truck today to buy some french fries. No better use of a truck has ever been devised since its invention. These delicious fries are known community-wide to be the best anywhere and so I patiently waited in a long line, happily shivering in the cold, to acquire my fill.

And fill it turned out to be as I carted my overflowing cup of goodies back to my car. I asked the server for extra salt and told her that, as a committed health-food nut, I needed the extra salt. Also a health-food freak, I believe, she obliged.

Comfortably seated in my car, I started the engine and turned up the heat. I looked especially with great anticipation at two very large consumables that had been piled on top of my greasy, vinegar-laden feast. But as I watched in horror, these two beauties jumped from the cup and fell down under my car seat and onto the floor.

I won’t say that my car floor is not regularly cleaned, but I will confess that there are creatures living under the seat. I have grown accustomed to them and even named a few. By far, Hector is my favourite. But now I realized, favourite or not, that he was no doubt chomping away on my snack and had been since it dropped right in front of him.

I tried to retrieve my two prizes but my fingers are too fat (I blame the truck) to slide down between the seat and the middle console. So I gave up. But as I gobbled down all the rest of my delicious feast, the fate of my two woe-begone strays never left my worried mind.

Where there is will and two gorgeous french fries out of reach, there is a way. There just had to be a way.

My mother told each of her seven kids that we all had to eat a pound of dirt in our lives. I can now announce that I have made my quota. I am not sure of the quota status of my siblings, but I have this idea that I might have also just filled the dirt requirements of at least two of them. I will phone them tomorrow to impart the good news.

The floor fries were a little dusty, to be honest, and it was a struggle to pry one of them out of the hungry jaws of Hector, who put up a valiant fight, but I would like to pay homage to the Great Goddess of Potatoes by saying the effort was well worth the struggle.

As it always is when dealing with most of the important things in life.

©2023 Jim Hagarty