Village Squire, 1980-08, Page 31ONE DAY AT A TIME
Editor's Note: Jim Hagarty is a 29 year old
staff reporter with The Beacon Herald in
Stratford. He is the former editor of The
Mitchell Advocate and wrote a weekly
column In that newspaper for the past
three years. Responses to his column are
welcomed and can be forwarded to The
Village Squire or to Mr. Hagarty, Box 456,
Mitchell.
I am an afternoon nap addict.
I write about it in the hope that others
similarly afflicted with afternoon slumber -
itis (now recognized as an incurable
disease) may find in these words some
reason for optimism.
For we are a lonely lot, besieged on all
sides by well-meaning but hopelessly
unknowing friends and employers who find
in our penchant for mid-day snoozes
something really offensive.
I say it's time we threw off the shackle of
public disapproval and put the criticisms of
the rabble behind us.
If, midway through reading this, you feel
like tumbling off, be my guest. In fact, I
think I'll lie down for half an hour myself
and finish this article later.
There! Now where was I?
Ah yes. Slumberitis. Makes me tired just
to think about it.
Anyway, it all began with me way back
when I was less than one day old. Seems I
just couldn't be my usual relaxed and quiet
self (for I was an ideal child) unless I
nodded off for two or three undisturbed
afternoon hours.
That pattern has continued to this very
day, reinforced in my subconscious mind
by my early years on the farm.
At a tender age I studiously observed
that all farm animals include an afternoon
sleep in their itineraries of things to be
accomplished during a day. Show me a cow
that's missed her 3 p.m. slumber under the
shade tree in the pasture field and I'll show
you a cow that'll deliver you a hardened
hoof in the shins after supper for your
efforts to milk her.
Find me a barn cat that gets up at 7 in
the morning, chases mice until noon, grabs
a quick lunch and then heads back to the
granary for five more hours of rodent -
baiting before calling it quits for the day
and you can have my Montreal Canadiens
hockey sweater.
All farm cats sleep in the afternoon as do
all dogs who are especially dependent on
their naps which they love to take best of
all under the cool shade of verandas or,
failing that, under tractors or trucks.
Farmers, too, imitate their flocks, herds
and pets and regularly stretch out on the
couch in the kitchen, winter and summer,
for a sleep after lunch. They're not stupid.
How do you suppose most of them find the
energy to cram two days' work into one?
Had I stayed on the farm, chances are I
might never have had to encounter the
misunderstanding of town and city folk in
this matter of afternoon napping. But alas!
Recent years have been filled with rude
awakenings.
Such as the time in Grade 11 when 1
dozed off during Latin class and was left
snoring at my desk long after the class had
ended and all my fellow students had
evacuated the room. In an incensed
mixture of the Latin and English languages
my normally calm teacher begged me to
awaken.
In later years, when I became a teacher
myself, it quickly became my practice to
render myself quite horizontal on the staff
room chesterfield during lunch break. That
habit really ingratiated me with my fellow
teachers who were thereby assigned to
sitting stiffly in hard -backed chairs for the
duration of their brief break.
Later still, the Mitchell Advocate's
receptionist was given the uninviting task
of deflecting customers away in the
afternoons with the stock (and usually
unbelieved) phrase, "the editor's not in."
She'd have better said, "the editor's not
in this world at the moment" for 1 was
usually lounging comfortably at the back of
the office, feet perched on my typewriter,
eyes resting.
All this brings me to the latest manifest-
ation of my illness.
Today, I was graciously given the
afternoon off. l raced home from Stratford
and was half -undressed by the time I
reached my front door. By the time 1
reached my bedroom I wore little else but a
smile and dove, with a flourish of
ceremony, onto the bed.
That was at 2 p.m.
An hour later, a small tornado swept
through Mitchell, tearing up trees, down-
ing hydro wires and plunging the whole
town into darkness. Through all this fury,
I, the on -the -spot eye -witness reporter,
was rendered inoperative by heavy slum-
ber.
1 bet my boss wants to see me tomorrow.
I just hope he schedules our meeting for
the morning.
xr * fr
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VILLAGE SQUIRE/AUGUST 1908 PG. 29