Jim Hagarty

A couple of weeks ago someone posted a video on the Internet showing a guy cleaning the rusty rear bumper of his car with Coca Cola and elbow grease.

I have a perfectly good bicycle that I was going to get rid of because it has been left outside these past two winters and the chrome wheels were covered in rust. They were so bad, in fact, that there was no indication that the wheels had ever had any chrome on them at all. So out I went with a can of Coke and got to work with, first a cloth and then some fine grit sandpaper. I have since graduated to steel wool. I work at it for 15 minutes every day, rinse everything off, then quit.

The results are astonishing. The rust is melting away. When everything is perfect, I am going to treat the wheels with car wax to keep the rust at bay.

I was telling a friend about this on Friday night as I sat with a bottle of Coke in one hand.

“And yet, you’re still drinking Coke,” she observed, and I realized I had forgotten the point the person who posted the video was trying to make.

“I am,” I answered. “But as far as I know, my stomach is completely rust free.” To be certain, I guess I should dine on some sandpaper and steel wool. Maybe swallow some car wax.

©2014 Jim Hagarty

Why is it, the more miserable the world gets, the happier morning radio announcers become? Do they think they can turn back the tide of gloom and doom with a few, well-placed yuks? Or is there a humour pool somewhere they’re desperately trying to keep filled up?

Whatever the reason, they’re all driving me nuts. Not because they’re funny. They’re not. The closest they come to that is corny, which can be darned hard to take at 6 a.m.

No, the reason I’d like to send them all back to broadcast school for a bit of upgrading is their unbridled cheerfulness. They sound as if, so far this week, they all just won the lottery, met the man/woman of their dreams, discovered the secret of life and stumbled upon some swami who gave them a lifetime supply of a potion that will keep them 21 forever.

I’ve been listening to radio all my life and used to love it more than TV. But this, oh-so-glad-to-be-alive stuff is turning me – and my radio – off several times a day.

One such “deejay” wouldn’t know humour if he was sharing an apartment with Bob Hope, Steve Martin and Jerry Seinfeld. However, he seems to be operating under the delusion that he’s the Alexander Graham Bell of humour and works on the principle that if you say something – anything – in a “funny” voice, it will be hilarious. If bone-chilling, vein-popping, heart-stopping aggravation is suddenly redefined as comedy, then I’ll personally walk across the stage to hand him his Funny Guy of ’94 Award.

This man’s biggest contribution to the humour pool is the expression, “Hoo hoooooooooo!” He says it 40 times a morning while he tries his zippy best to cajole us out of bed.

“Come on all you sleepyheads out there,” he chirps. “Time to get out of that nice, warm bed. Come on now. Rise and shine. Hoo hoooooooooo!”

The bad news is, he’s the best of a bad lot because many stations have decided the job of saying, “Now here’s another golden oldie” can only be handled by two young, super-cheerful types whose voices are the very embodiment of glee. And of course, the morning “men” on radio come in both sexes now and often use their differing genders as the subject of their playful banter. The ones that most regularly get me grinding my teeth also have their favourite expressions: he – “heh, heh, heh”; she – “hee, hee, hee.” (What is it with funny expressions that start with the letter “h”?)

“So, Linda, whadju do on the weekend?”

“Well, Don, I got the old bikini out …”

“Yikes. Run for your lives everybody.”

“Oh you. Hee, hee, hee!”

“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. Heh, heh, heh!”

“How about you Don? Whadju do?”

“Well Linda, I dug out the old golf clubs …”

“Oh no! Call 9-1-1! Call 9-1-1! Hee, hee, hee!”

“Heh, heh, heh!”

Now I ask you: what if you had no choice but to listen to this for four hours every morning? Wouldn’t you be asking around for Dr. Kevorkian’s phone number?

One station, not content to double our pain, regularly opts for three voices on their airwaves. Two zippy men and one zippy woman, conducting a daily contest, can hardly get the words out for laughing so hard at their own cleverness as they poke fun at each other. The topics usually involve: (a) the fat male belly; (b) the non-technical female brain; (c) the bald male head; (d) the female penchant for lateness; and whatever other gender-related things can still be safely laughed at.

Things have gotten so bad, I was forced against my will to turn on CBC Stereo the other day. There, unexpectedly, was a veritable shade tree of an announcer in the ’90s radio desert who stated in a calm, monotone, unmodulated, straight-as-a-tightrope voice: “And now, a selection by the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra, their rendition of one of J.S. Bach’s earlier works.” No, hoo hooooooooos or hee hees. No yuk yuks.

No exhortations to smile. No commands to rise and shine. And definitely no zippiness.

But if the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation isn’t the answer, maybe the next best solution is to sleep until noon.

©1994 Jim Hagarty

I feel badly about taking so long today to get out a post but I have a list of excuses as long as both of my arms. You don’t want to hear the list, but with three blogs on the go these days, I am busier than a one-armed paperhanger. Which is my excuse to tell you that in real life, I actually know a one-armed paperhanger. His name is Bob and he’s a bit older than I am. He lost one of his arms when he was a teenager but in spite of that, he took up carpentry and became a much-sought-after tradesman. And, yes, he specialized in hanging wallpaper (I am sure he must be retired by now). He was darned good at it. And whether he has one arm or three, he’s one of the nicest guys I know.

©2019 Jim Hagarty

Once in a while, in this fake and phony world, something truly honest comes along and I like that. In my stocking Christmas morning was a one-serving box of Sugar Pops. That’s right, Sugar Pops. Honest as the day is long, unlike Fruit Loops which contains 99 per cent sugar and zero per cent fruit not to mention hardly any loops.

And all the other pre-prepared foods on the shelves pretty much disguise their sugar content. Like ketchup, for example. Who knew there is sugar in ketchup, for the love of Julius Caesar? It would probably be a short list, in fact, if I wrote down all the foods that don’t have sugar. Or salt, for that matter. Or both. In fact, there is probably sugar in salt, and salt in sugar.

But good old Sugar Pops! I’m not sure how many pops are in this cereal but I do know there is lots of sugar. And I am kind of grateful that the makers of Sugar Pops are not ashamed of their product. They put it right out there. No one would be fooled if the cereal was called “Poppin’ Good Round Little Balls”, especially after they were tasted. So why not just be honest?

On the front of a box of Cap’n Crunch, for example, are the words “It’s Cruncharific!” I think we all know what they mean by that.

I haven’t bought any bags of white sugar lately but I’m not even sure they put the word sugar on those.

Long Live Sugar Pops!

(This message brought to you by the Canadian Dental Health Association)

©2012 Jim Hagarty

I’m worn out today as I was busy on the Internet last night spending $455 for three teaspoons of water from a cup Elvis Presley drank from during one of his final performances in 1977. My family thought we might have used that money for a new TV or digital camera but they do not have their priorities straight.

The guy I bought the water from – a trustworthy fellow if there ever was one – was at that concert and watched the King drink from that very cup. He took the cup home and put it in his freezer, water and all, only now agreeing to part with it to help guys like me keep the memories alive

And it was me who paid out $2,500 for a Britney Spears book report and another $800 for a Jimi Hendrix Junior High School Yearbook from 1961.

My wife suggested that money might go towards a new front door and bay window but any time you can get a Britney Spears book report for such a reasonable price, you simply have to jump at the chance. A true appreciator of valuable cultural artifacts knows that.

I also was the one who had the good sense to anonymously bid $650,000 for the guitar George Harrison used for several tracks on one of the Beatles later albums (I admit I had to take out a mortgage for this one). George, it seems, though no longer around to verify this, gave that guitar to a friend whose brother stuck it under his bed where it stayed for 30 years. If I had a Beatles guitar under my bed, I think I might have remembered that, but no matter.

The important thing is it’s lying under my bed now and I can pull it out and plunk away on it any time I please. I sound very Georgish when I do.

I agree this was a lot of money to spend for an old guitar – the people I live with had suggested a new car, cottage and camper van – but they will be glad some day for my foresight.

A good day’s shopping wouldn’t be complete without spending $54,000 for never-before-heard original tapes of a John Lennon interview by a reporter for the Washington Star newspaper from 1975.

And I am afraid I couldn’t help myself. I just had to have those three ringside photographs of Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier from their 1971 fight, taken by Frank Sinatra, and so I spent $14,500 to get them and I did.

Sure I expect my house insurance rate to increase by a few thousand dollars now and I will live in eternal fear of my treasures being stolen, lost, or accidentally destroyed – hopefully somebody won’t drink the Elvis water by mistake – but when you have vision, and a friendly banker, you just have to go for it now and then.

My funds are getting low but if anyone knows how I could get a hold of one of Madonna’s hair curlers, I’d appreciate a call.

©2004 Jim Hagarty

I grew up on what was called a “mixed farm” although almost all of the varied things that were raised and grown were gone by the time I came along as my parents had switched to beef cattle solely. But even though they were gone, we would play in the empty henhouse where the chickens had been. There were unused beehives sitting beside the garage. I know we used to have geese as my Dad was attacked by one when he was five years old. We had once had pigs, cows, and beef cattle along with the geese and the chickens. No goats or sheep that I know of. Workhorses, of course, were a feature and very important part of the operation.

And in a 10-acre field west of the house there was a large orchard, all the trees in neat rows, though the fruit was never taken care of in my day and was often scabby. There were lots of apple trees of many varieties from red apples (maybe macs?) to yellow harvest apples and these huge “cooking” apples that were terrible to eat – very pulpy – but good for making pies and cider. The darned things were half way between a very large apple and a small pumpkin.

There were also some plum and pear trees in the orchard though the season was usually too short for the fruit on those trees to ripen. The branches of the trees hung low and when a friend brought his pony around one day and I got on it to ride a horse for the first time, the little dickens headed straight for the fruit trees at a fair clip knowing the branches would scrape me off its back, which they did.

My favourite fruit tree of all was a cherry tree located near the road. I remember the red cherries would be ripe by the last day of school in June and I would climb up there and fight the birds – and sometimes my siblings – for them. The birds were easier to chase away than the siblings. Even when the cherries were gone I would sit up in the tree and watch people come and go on the road. I always thought they couldn’t see me so that was kind of thrilling and mysterious.

All of these things were features of the way my grandparents farmed and they gradually went out of use when their day passed along with the mixed farm. One thing that did remain was a massive vegetable garden. That was a great place to go with a salt shaker. I’d pick tomatoes, wet them with my tongue, cover them with salt and eat them. Heaven.

The mixed farm is long gone almost everywhere now (I assume so, anyway, though I might be out of touch) but can still be found in Mennonite Country north of Stratford, Ontario, Canada. It isn’t just their clothing and horses and buggies that harken back to a much earlier, simpler, quieter time.

Not easier, but slower.

I many of those homes, the families go to bed when the sun goes down and get up when it rises in the morning.

Now that’s keeping it simple.

©2014 Jim Hagarty

When I met Edward, I was the editor of a small weekly newspaper in my hometown. I had somehow convinced the publisher of the paper that we needed to add a sports reporter to our incredibly large newsroom staff of two – a news reporter and me. Sports were everything in our town, I argued, and if we wanted to compete with the daily in our midst, we needed sports coverage. I could have probably had all of us driving in our own personal Cadillacs if I had told him it would help us compete with the daily.

I interviewed several people for the sports reporter’s job including Edward. I don’t remember anything about the other candidates but I do recall that Edward did not stand out as the obvious first choice. He was not an athlete and had never played sports. But he lived and breathed hockey. He could barely skate and had never played the game, but he was almost obsessed with it.

At one point, I asked Edward what his longterm goal might be. He replied that he would like to work at The Hockey News, a glossy magazine out of Toronto that covered all things hockey, with a focus on the National Hockey League. I liked his ambition but I didn’t want to crush his dreams by sharing with him the realistic appraisal that the road from the Stratford Gazette to The Hockey News would be a long and torturous one.

Responding to his enthusiasm, I hired Edward. And he did a great job. He was funny, personable and willing to learn everything a two-person newsroom could pass onto him.

A little over a year later, Edward arrived at work one morning with his notice. He was leaving for a job in Toronto with the online edition of The Hockey News. Ten years ago, online versions of magazines were not much more than an afterthought, without the status they have today. And to be hired to plug in stories and statistics on a website was not the Brass Ring of Journalism. Still, it was The Hockey News.

We said goodbye to Edward as he moved to the big city.

A week ago, I was in a book store, looking for gift ideas for my son, who is a hockey fanatic. I picked up a copy of The Hockey News magazine and flipped to an inside page near the front of the publication to look through the lineup of contributors, a little habit I picked up years ago.

My jaw dropped at the first name that jumped out at me:

Managing Editor: Edward Fraser.

He made it.

Two things:

1. Dreams can come true.

2. Success depends on knowing exactly what you want. As a friend says, when we take a step towards Fate, Fate takes a step towards us.

Edward’s success had nothing to do with my hiring him for a sports reporter’s job at a small newspaper. Had we never met, I believe, he would be managing editor at The Hockey News today.

When the Universe demands an outcome, nothing can stand in its way.

©2017 Jim Hagarty

I used to think I knew it all.
That I was as smart as they came.
And when the world discovered me
I’d be showered in riches and fame.

So you can imagine my sorrow
When my brilliance went unrecognized.
My achievements were just mediocre,
My talents in few circles prized.

I was sure that over the next hill
I’d see big pots of gold and awards.
But the landscape was always so barren
And offered me scant few rewards.

But then I was somehow surrounded
By a son and a daughter and wife
And the things I had thought so important
Just drifted away from my life.

For some reason they think that I matter
And I’ve come to believe that they’re right.
When love came to me without condition
It led me to reach out to the light.

If I’d won every contest I entered
And rose to the top of the heap,
I wouldn’t be blessed with such sweet dreams
Every night when I drift off to sleep.

There are few things in life that are certain
But there’s one thing I think I now know.
I’m content to work behind the curtain
While someone else is the star of the show.

©2019 Jim Hagarty

Okay , it’s time I took this column to a whole new level

I have a few questions to which l would dearly like some answers because I fall asleep every night troubled by these things.

To begin with, why is everyone always bringing something to the table nowadays? And why do we care so much about what the other guy brings to the table? Why do we toss him overboard if he doesn’t bring much to the table? Where is this table, anyway? Oh, for the simple life on the farm. Mom brought it all to the table; we pulled up our chairs and ate it.

And further to that theme, why are we all taunting each other to “Bring it on!”? Are we nuts? Most of the time, I wish people would “Take it away!” and usually have no desire for them to bring it on. There are too many people bringing too many things on, as far as l’m concerned.

Why is it, today, that when someone has no intention of doing something, that person will say, “Ya, I’ll get right on that?” What they mean is, they will not be getting right on that any time soon. Actually, never. Not to sound like I grew up down the road from Abraham Lincoln and walked with him 20 miles through the bush to school every day, but when l was a kid, if I didn’t get right on that, somebody usually got right on me. Then, my reaction was to get right on that.

When will we ever stop taking everything to the next level or a whole new level? Is the level we’re on never enough? And don’t we realize that when we get to the next level, there will simply be another new level to take things to after that? I thought being on the level was a good thing. It meant you weren’t rolling downhill. Character-wise, it meant you were one honest hombre. But now, life is just a series of new levels to be taken to. I wish we were level-headed enough to simply stay on the level we’re on, once things have levelled out.

When Abe and I were young, if we said to each other, “Good luck with that,” we honestly meant we hoped the other guy succeeded at whatever challenge he was up against. Now, the person who utters this expression is not wishing you luck at all, but telling you that you haven’t a hope of accomplishing your goal, and they’re kind of glad you won’t. So why don’t they say, “Bad luck with that!?” In the same vein is, “Yeh, like that’s going to happen!” (Clue: It’s not going to happen.)

Here are a few other puzzlers. “Bang, done!” What? “Done and done!” If something is done, can it be done again? “Not a problem.” What happened to, “No problem?”

And why, oh why, is everyone trying so hard to “get ‘er done?” I remember when teams used to lose hockey games. Now, they just don’t get ’er done. Maybe they forgot to say, before the game, “We can do this.” Or the captain failed to tell them, “We’re good to go.”

But I have got to be honest with you. I miss the days when things were “great”, “terrific”, “good”, “wonderful”. Now everything’s just “sweeeet!!!” and the sound of that word is making me sour.

All I can say is, “Enough!”

“Already.”

©2004 Jim Hagarty

A man who likes to be alone
And shuns the noisy crowd
Confuses those who like to be
In settings large and loud.

A man who likes to be alone
Is judged and sometimes feared
By those who think a man
Who likes to be alone is weird.

A man who likes to be alone
And silent in his yard
Is someone others think
Must have a heart that has gone hard.

But the man who likes to be alone
Was not always that way.
He used to whoop and holler too
And act wild in his day.

A man who likes to be alone
Lets others have their fun
While he sits under trees
And loves the wind, the rain, the sun.

A man who likes to be alone,
His doggie by his side,
Has happy memories of good times
And isn’t trying to hide.

He’s simply let go of the need
For chit chat and fake grins,
And looking outward for the peace
He finds now looking in.

©Jim Hagarty