Author: Jim Hagarty

Some day I will write a book about a coffee shop in my town called The Donut Mill.

Sadly, it is closed for good now, but it was my home away from home for many years, just behind my house and up the street. A two-minute walk away. It was a place of charm and character, and I loved every nook and cranny.

I drank a hundred gallons of coffee there and ate my weight in muffins and donuts several times over. It was widely acknowledged that the Donut Mill had the best coffee and baked goods in town.

The original building was small, but quaint. It was nicely sided in brown bricks with brown aluminum soffit and fascia and big windows. It wasn’t big inside and there was full-on smoking so every now and then, the formerly white ceiling tiles which turned a sickening yellow after time had to be replaced and the walls re-painted.

The coffee shop had a long counter that jutted out in the middle and tucked back in against one wall. There were stools, covered in red vinyl upholstery, all around the bar and when I went there, whether alone or with a friend, I tried to get the stool next to the wall. So did a dozen other guys.

Besides the busy walk-in traffic, the shop had a very loyal clientele, a gaggle of chatty guys who gathered every night to talk about their cars, trucks and motorcycles.

The place did a good trade but was a bit small and had no drivethrough, so the owners decided they needed to build a bigger spot with a take-out window.

They were progressive in that way but they also knew they needed to keep that loyal following of “car guys” as my friend and I referred to them. The owners worried they might lose these customers in any move so here is what they did.

They bought a nice big lot just up the street, on the same side of the street and only a few hundred feet away from the old shop (and right behind my house). They hired an architect. He was given the job of expanding the coffee shop, putting in a no-smoking section where food could be served, and adding a drivethrough.

His big challenge, however, was to make the new Donut Mill look exactly like the old one. And he did it. From the outside, the new one looked just like the old one – same brick, same trim, same windows and doors.

The sign from the old place was just moved down the street and attached to the front of the new one. Same coach lamps on the outside walls.

Inside there were the new features, but the same island for the till with its glassed-in area for the donuts and muffins.

But most importantly, the exact same counter with the identical red stools from the old shop.

When it opened, it was eerie going inside for the first time. Same tables, decor, everything. The car guys all streamed back in, almost as though they didn’t even notice they were in a new place, sat down on the stools and their discussion about all things automotive never missed a beat.

It was a clever design that took the customers into account.

And here’s what I liked the most.

A big name coffee shop a few blocks away just recently tore down their old store and moved across the street where they built a new one. It looks nothing like the old one and is very nice, but as far as I can see, a whole new, younger staff was hired for the new shop.

When the Donut Mill moved, all the same staff moved with it. We knew all these people from years and years of going there. Their familiar faces were the nicest feature to see when the new shop opened. They were like good friends.

We didn’t “go to” the Donut Mill as much as we visited it. That is what the new building recaptured and the new features added even more to it. But sadly, one owner’s death and the other’s illness forced its closing a few years ago.

I miss it.

And there is one other reason I loved the Donut Mill. I met a wonderful woman at the old coffee shop who would soon become my wife. And after our wedding reception, we dropped into the new place at 4 a.m., me in my tuxedo, my bride still in her wedding dress. We wanted to thank the owners for encouraging us to take the plunge.

All of that for the price of a cup of coffee.

©2013 Jim Hagarty

Like a lot of things these days, road rage just ain’t what it used to be.

A man on a freeway in Florida cut off a woman while changing lanes so she shrugged her shoulders as if to say WTF? That was his cue, of course, to start chasing her and her carload of kids. Chased her, then pulled out a gun and pointed it at her kids.

She dodged him. So he grabbed an assault rifle, a perfectly logical response to the situation, but before he could mow down anybody, he shot himself in the leg and crashed his car.

I believe what this calls for, to prevent further injuries like this, is the installation of assault rifles on the hoods of cars in Florida. They could be fired by the drivers with the use of a handy remote control. They could even be set up to swivel which would improve accuracy.

Road ragers are people too and have the right to not shoot off their legs when pursuing mommies and kiddies with murder in their heart.

It’s in the Constitution.

Way back in the innocent sixties, shortly after I got my driver’s licence at 16, I began my own career as a road rager. I started off modestly, as most ragers do. I would look at an offending driver and refuse to smile. That didn’t seem to produce the effect I was going for so I graduated to the mildly angry scowl. But it was muted, sort of non-committal. I then moved on to full scowl which was a fearsome thing to encounter and then to horn honking. Finally, I escalated to the ultimate – the middle finger salute!

On one occasion, years ago, after producing the salute, the driver it was aimed at didn’t like it all and proceeded to chase me all over town, his front bumper six inches away from my back bumper. Scared half to death, I kept driving around until I finally pulled up in front of the police station. My tormenter didn’t seem to appreciate that and he zoomed off to somewhere unknown to make someone else’s life enjoyable. I’m wondering if he just emerged from 10 years in prison the day before and didn’t want to associate with officers of the law.

It is also possible he was the first cousin of that peach of a guy with the shot-off leg in Florida.

Whatever the case may be, that was the day I was cured of my road rage mania.

So, my pursuer did me a big favour though I am sure that was not his intention. Road ragers were not put here on Earth to do favours for others.

As for me, I keep my pistols in the fridge now where they belong and my assault rifles are tucked away safely in the attic.

©2015 Jim Hagarty

It amazes me what the tee shirt industry has managed to get away with these past few decades. While virtually no one (except me) was watching, the makers of these classic garments have been steadily shrinking the material they put into them while expanding the designations they assign to their clothing.

I remember my earliest tees being sized “small” and even at that, they fit pretty loosely. Then came the mediums, and same thing – hardly snug, just right. But the devious manufacturers began pulling the wool (cotton? polyester?) over our eyes when they began churning out “large” tee shirts. I swear these shirts, in an earlier time, were actually mediums or even smalls, but there I was walking around in large tee shirts which, eventually, somehow, didn’t seem large to me at all. In fact, they felt more like mediums and on hot, humid days, even smalls. And there were times when I actually needed help to pull these larges up over my head and off my sweaty torso.

The day I put on my first extra large tee shirt was as close as I have ever come to writing a hostile letter to a clothing maker or taking even more drastic action but I was too depressed to do it. The fact is, the extra large shirt fit just fine, which obviously meant that in reality, it was a large or even a medium size. How, I wonder, are these greedy capitalists able to get away with such a swindle?

Finally, on Saturday, I put on a new “two times extra large” tee shirt and I was crestfallen to realize that the Great Tee Shirt Scandal was now tipping in a new direction. Rather than being too small, this darned thing was way too big. I wore it to a family reunion anyway, having nothing else that was clean. Since then, I have seen photos of myself from the event and am shocked to realize that I was wearing not a tee shirt at all but a moo moo.

So now, the tee shirt makers are passing off moo moos as tee shirts. And I refuse even to discuss the size designation of “three times extra large”. That one is big enough to do double duty as a barbecue cover.

Whenever Ontario Premier Doug Ford (a possible three times extra large candidate if I ever saw one) gets done with his buck a beer crusade, he might want to take on the tee shirt industry. He could at least get them to come up with new designations after large such as “beach size”, “tent”, “blanket”, “moo moo”. At the very least, get rid of that ridiculous “extra” specification. The connotation of that awful descriptive suggests that the wearer of such a garment is walking around in an “extra large” body, for example.

I have been looking for a cause to champion and realize all the really good ones are gone. With the advent of the tee shirt/moo moo, I think I might have just found my crusade.

©2018 Jim Hagarty

I pulled into a very small and very crowded parking lot this afternoon to pick up a pizza.

I squeezed my car into a hairpin of a space and then got out. Confronting me was the sign shown above.

We have a company in Canada called Ticket Defenders which helps people fight tickets they receive for a variety of infractions, some of them issued because of parking violations.

My first thought was, am I going to get a ticket for parking in the Ticket Defenders’ spot? And if I do, can I walk into the Ticket Defenders’ office, situated right in front of my car, and ask them to defend me in court so I can get out of paying the ticket which would essentially be their ticket.

If they turn me down, is there a business anywhere called Ticket Defenders Ticket Defenders which will fight on my behalf to get the ticket issued by Ticket Defenders cancelled?

If there isn’t, I might have to open one.

First, I need to finish my pizza.

©2016 Jim Hagarty

As my wife and I settled in for a few days’ holidays at a lakeside cottage in Northern Canada last week, I could see that this was not going to be like four days and three nights at the Ramada Inn. Not that our friends’ three-bedroom cabin isn’t modern or clean. In fact, it’s in great shape, with new siding and a wonderful steam bath built on a rock jutting out into the water of a beautiful lake.

But one important feature distinguishes their cottage from the well-known chain of hotels. No Ramada that I’m aware of makes use of a two-hole “outhouse” located about 100 yards from the front doors as do our friends at their get-away property in the bush. Now, despite the fact that I was blessed by being born in a time well after the invention of the indoor flush toilet, I am not, on principle, opposed to the two-holer, which served people well for hundreds of years and is still in use by many today. In fact, there’s something kind of earthy and natural about the whole process which I’m sure must be much more environmentally friendly than the various chemicals thrown down modern toilets to keep them clean.

No, the outhouse is not my natural enemy, as such, unless it is combined with a few other complicating factors. In the case of our friends’ cottage, it is located in a territory which is inhabited not only by humans desperate to get out of the city in the summertime, but by bears that I imagine wish humans would stay in the city where they belong. But even bears and outhouses pose no big threat provided a third element is included, that being the middle of the night.

Jolted awake at 3 a.m. by that old, familiar feeling of urgency that just can’t be wished away, I lay there reviewing my options. Realizing I had none, I dressed and headed for the cabin door, the outhouse for to find. Suddenly, in the darkness of the wooded surroundings, the outhouse which had seemed only a stone’s throw away during the day, had apparently been moved another half-mile or so down the lane. To get there, I would have to pass several perfect bear-hiding objects such as trees, rocks, cars and shacks. This I would do knowing my doom awaited me in the form of the biggest, meanest bear in the country that was obviously hiding behind the outhouse itself and which had a thing about middle-age guys with knobby knees, glasses and fragile bowels. Worse yet, it occurred to me a bear might actually be waiting cleverly right there for me in the two-holer when I opened the wooden door. And even if I survived that surprise, I would not want to follow a bear into a bathroom which I imagine he or she could foul up real bad.

So, with all this on my mind, I had to venture out into the black, still night, treading lightly so as to not make a sound which might be attractive to a hungry bear or that would conceal from my attention the sudden approach of a bear leaping onto my back. As I approached the outhouse, the moment of truth arrived. Flinging open the door, I could see I’d be sharing the facilities with only a few hungry mosquitoes and a spider or two. Unless, of course, a bear ripped open the door while I was in there, which I could see was a distinct possibility.

Three nights in a row, this scene was played out with my last nocturnal trip as scary as my first. Of course, I was given brave assurances that bears never venture into the camps day or night but I wondered why, on my radio as I drove out of the bush on Friday, a local expert was giving advice on what to do if you come face to face with one. Now why give important information about something that never happens?

One thing’s sure. They don’t hand out tips on bears at the Ramada Inn where outhouses are not a common feature.

©1993 Jim Hagarty

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.

Then there is the array of backyard hottubs, above-ground pools, in-ground pools, and who knows what else.

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 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. Lightweight, even when filled with poop.

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.

So he happens to be super fortunate.

So what?

©2020 Jim Hagarty

There is a popular song on the radio these days about a guy who is frustrated that his girlfriend doesn’t share the deep feelings of love he has for her. The singer of this catchy song passionately describes what he would do for this woman. He would catch a grenade for her, put his hand on a blade for her, jump in front of a train for her and even take a bullet through his brain for her.

However, he’s concerned that she would not do these same things for him. In fact, he sings that he believes that if his body was on fire, she would just stand there and watch him burn.

I am not a professional counsellor and couldn’t talk an ant from jumping off an apple, but I wish I could spend a little time with this poor lad. First of all, I would advise him that after catching a grenade, cutting his hand on a blade, jumping in front of a train, shooting himself in the head and setting his body on fire, he might be somewhat of a mess and, not to take sides, but after all that, I would think any sensible woman might want to think about whether she would want to do these same things for this guy who would not be much of a prize by then.

So, in that respect, I think she’s probably showing some pretty good judgment where he appears to have no sense of balance whatsoever. Hence, she is quite clearly too good for him and is smart to move on and that’s what he should do too right after he receives some intensive help for these extreme masochistic tendencies of his. And treatment for his terrible injuries.

If it was me, I’d choose no girlfriend over a grenade, a blade, a train, a bullet and a body fire any day. Call me selfish if you want but remember the principle that has guided my life: I’d rather be a live chicken than a dead duck!

©2012 Jim Hagarty

I have mentioned before that, unlike most people on this earth who lead ordinary lives, I know exactly how I will die some day.

The last image I see, before my departure, will be the big ugly face of an angry bear. I am deathly afraid of bears and they say that what we fear we attract, so I am doomed. But I was reminded today that there may be an alternative exit waiting for me.

My neighbour asked me to come over to his house and replace a light switch in his kitchen. I am as qualified to do electrical work as Donald Trump is to run a country, but I am nothing if not up for a challenge. I told him to make sure the power was off. (I have discovered over the years since that actual electricians often don’t bother to turn off the power while they work.)

I showed up for the job with wire stripper in one hand and needlenose pliers in the other. I wanted to show my neighbour the awesomeness of my electrical skills.

Ten seconds into the job, the one strand of hair that is left on my head stood straight up, my eyes turned into lasers and I could see right through the wall. I also broke into song – the Ukrainian National Anthem, I believe it was.

The hydro was still on.

Oops.

Undaunted, we finally found how to turn the power off for real and I finished the job. Funny thing though. I went to put a frozen meat pie in the oven for supper but after holding it in my hand for 30 seconds, it was done.

This is the fourth time I have electrified myself over the years. I am starting to think it’s good for me. I feel completely energized afterwards. It seems to jazz up my heart.

And I can read in bed after dark without turning on the light. So that’s a bonus.

In light of all this, this is the likely outcome: I will be electrifying myself by accident some day with more juice than I can handle when a murderous bear will break into my house (or my neighbour’s) just at that moment.

It will all make for a very interesting obit for the late Jim Hagarty. In solidarity, mourners will be asked to bring wire strippers and needlenose pliers to the funeral.

And a large can of bear spray. In case my killer’s cousin drops in.

©2016 Jim Hagarty

I drove into a nice shady spot at my favourtie fast food restaurant and opened my coffee, prepared for a nice 15-minute break. A car pulled in beside me. Its driver got out and peeked inside my open passenger door window.

“Hey Bud. Mind looking after my car?” said the middle-aged man, who, without hearing my answer, then walked away and into a nearby store.

I looked at his car. It was not a car that anybody needed to look after. In fact, I am going to guess that nobody had looked after it for a long time. But now I was looking after it. I had no information to illuminate the task I had been assigned, a job given to me casually by a stranger who offered me no option but to accept the challenge. Were the keys in the ignition? Was there a baby in a child’s seat in the back? A thousand dollars in silver coins lying on the seat?

Immediately, I imagined a horde of car wreckers lurking in the parking lot, waiting to launch a car invasion on the vehicle I was suddenly guarding. I went from relaxed coffee drinker to nervous car-watching pile of human misery in about 15 seconds. I didn’t know if I had what it would take to fight off a bunch of nasty auto vandals.

And here’s the thing. The car owner who had enlisted me in the serious business of protecting his mode of transportation, seemed to be in no hurry to return from the store. For all I knew, he worked there and had just started an eight-hour shift.

I finished my coffee and sat there. The car owner had found the one guy in this town who feels responsible for everything around him, twenty-four hours a day. I would have sat there for three full days watching that bucket of bolts simply because I had been put in charge. Finally, after almost another complete half hour, I came to the logical conclusion that the car owner’s words to me must have been the last he ever spoke. He had obviously been either kidnapped or murdered upon entering the store. Now, I had to worry about his kidnappers/murderers emerging bloodthirsty from the store. Seeing me watching the guy’s car, they would probably toss a grenade, or at the very least a stinkbomb, through my open window.

Wisely, at last, I got the hell out of there.

I seem to attract these kinds of assignments. This morning, a neighbour came to my door. Nicest guy I know. He has done a lot for me and my family over the years. He had a request. A FedEx truck was delivering a package from Spain and he had to leave. He gave them my name and wondered if I would be home to accept the delivery. I did have plans to not be home accepting FedEx packages from Spain, but here I am. Locked inside my home, staring out the window.

My neighour drove away. I have no idea where he is. For all I know, he’s sitting in shorts and straw hat at a seaside outdoor cafe, sipping sasparillas or mint juleps, and contemplating how good life has been to him. Either that or he is at the fast-food restaurant, ransacking the car I had left unguarded there. Seems like that would be out of character for him but it is a crazy world. And I would like to know what it is he has ordered from Spain.

And you wonder why I am a wreck. I feel almost like I am one of those marks in a Just For Laughs TV prank or a Candid Camera episode. Pretty soon I will be directed to look into the disguised camera that has been trained on me all along. I will laugh uproariously.

Meanwhile, would you mind looking after this website for me? Hackers and such. Thanks. Now back to my mint julep. Which should be interesting as I have no idea what the hell a mint julep is. Or a sasparilla, for that matter.

©2016 Jim Hagarty

I was born with gorilla fingers. And by that I mean big fingers, not fingers covered in fur.

Of course, the hands to which these massive digits were attached to were also oversized and for some reason, this became a source of pride for me. I seemed to be always daring other kids to go palm to palm with me so I could gloat about my obvious genetic superiority.

But my large-fingers-inspired joy didn’t last forever as the time arrived for me to learn how to play guitar. I couldn’t squeeze four fingers onto the narrow fretboard of a normal steel-stringed guitar and so had to switch to a classical guitar which has a wider neck.

Nevertheless, things went along pretty well for the next few decades until I came into the possession of a smartphone. My hippo hands came back to haunt me when trying to operate this fanciest of gizmos, especially when trying to send text messages. It would take me 15 minutes to ask John how he was doing.

“Hater Jonne. How shit gohnn?”

This went on for years. And several years, I’m pretty sure, have been removed from my lifespan because of the frustration.

My phone allows me to dictate my text messages and every once in a while, I turn on that feature and give it a try. Today that once in a while arrived again. Things started off well, my first few words being laid down almost flawlessly.

Then it began to go badly off the rails and as my go-to reaction in situations such as these is to freak out and start yelling like an angry auctioneer, I did exactly that with my little phone. As I screamed, I watched the phone screen. It recorded my meltdown pretty well, even going with “geez” when the going got too tough.

There was someone else in the room and I gave her a running commentary.

“What the hell?” typed my phone. “This crazy thing is typing everything I say. Crap. Well that’s useless. Geez.” This is just a small sampling of my diatribe.

Finally, I couldn’t take any more.

“Piss off,” I told my phone. It typed that out perfectly, “Piss off.” It also had a perfect record when I told it to piss right off.

So, I had lots of deleting to do. I shut off the microphone and went back to using my panther-sized paws. They deliver a lot less profanity, on an average day.

But on reflection, I am proud of my little phone. Any modern device that will tell itself to piss off is my new best friend.

©2021 Jim Hagarty