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Thursday, December 17, 2009

Death of a frog

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
It was one of those times when I got into trouble and it wasn’t even my fault – honest.
How could I have predicted the bizarre series of events that would end in the tragic and accidental murder of a frog?
The tale of the doomed amphibian dates back to my youth. I was 18 years old and in the army militia and we were on a training exercise at a shooting range.
It was pretty much a day like any other: the sun was shining, the birds were chirping and a group of teenage boys were shooting high-powered rifles and loving every minute of it.
Now before any of you get worried, I did not accidentally shoot the frog. No, Kermit’s long-lost cousin was not killed by friendly fire.
There was no weaponry involved in the death of the webbed wonder. In fact, there was not even intent to cause the green guy any harm, but when you get 20 or so teenage boys together something stupid is bound to happen.
We spent the morning running through the woods with our rifles doing various exercises before heading to the rifle range and making our guns go bang over and over again.
Personally, I loved shooting. I always have. I have never killed anything bigger than a bird – starlings to be exact – but I was a crack shot (not a crack pot as some may claim) and I have squeezed a trigger thousands of times in my life.
As a kid growing up in a rural area, I took my pellet gun and a can of pellets every where.
It was a different time back then and no one blinked when they saw a kid walking down the street with a rifle.
I can remember waving to the neighbours with my pellet gun resting on my shoulder as I walked up the road to the nearby hills and they would wave back without so much as a second glance.
Of course everyone knew everyone else so if I did do anything stupid my parents would hear about it before I was done doing it
If a kid was spotted with a gun today, every cop for 150 kilometres would be called in to action.
Anyway, back to the tale of the hard-luck frog whose luck was about to run out.
It happened during a mid-day meal break – civilians call it lunch time, but that would just make too much sense for the army.
A good buddy of mine, whom I had gotten into trouble with in the past and likely deserved it, had found a rather large bullfrog lounging near the shore of a pond we stopped at.
He pounced on the critter and held his prize for all to see. I am not sure why, but for some reason he decided to see what would happen when he flipped the frog straight up into the air.
Now, before PETF (People for the Ethical Treatment of Frogs) gets all in a tizzy, I would just like to say that, um, er, alright, it was not a very nice thing to do to a frog.
Upon launching said amphibian, my buddy noticed Kermit’s arms and legs spread out and he looked like he was doing a jumping jack or something.
Several people found it amusing, so my buddy did it a few more times before one of the officers, a renowned frog hugger, noticed and told him to stop.
My friend did, and he flipped the frog back into the pond from whence it came.
Now this is where fate stepped in.
I was about five metres away and not having much interest in flying frogs, I was not paying too much attention to what was going on. I was however throwing softball-sized rocks into the lake. I was kind of lobbing them over my shoulder without even looking at where they were landing.
So, my buddy threw the frog into the water and this creature could have gone in any one of 360 directions and as he began to swim, I lobbed another rock.
As I released the miniature boulder I watched it arc to the water and that’s when I noticed the frog.
I watched the rock come crashing down on top of frog, making a near perfect impact on his head.
Oops.
What are the odds - a frog in a big pond getting clobbered by a randomly thrown rock? I guess the odds were good enough for it to happen and the world had one less frog to accommodate.
The frog-loving officer witnessed the killing and went absolutely ballistic, claiming we had conspired to whack the frog.
It was kind of hard to defend ourselves because we were trying to look innocent without laughing out loud.
In the end, we convinced the officer it was a tragic mishap and we had no intention of deliberately hurting the critter.
But for the rest if of my time in the unit, that officer kept a close eye on the ‘frog smasher.’

Long live the king

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
I am not sure what is stranger, the item itself or the fact that someone out there is willing to pay good money for it.
The item in question is none other than Elvis Presley's nasal douche.
That's right, you read correctly – some lucky soul could soon be the proud owner of the King's personal glass nasal douche that he used to clean his nose to its very depths before each show.
The item, that looks a lot like a bong actually, will go on the auction block along with pictures of Marilyn Monroe and other stuff that used to belong to people who are now dead.
No word if some of the King's nasal drippings are stuck to the glass contraption, but if there was, I am sure it would drive up the price.
I mean, who wouldn't want to own one of Elvis' boogers? Talk about a conversation peace.
“Hey, Bob what do you have there.”
“That,” replies Bob swelling with pride, “is simply one of the greatest treasures ever sold at auction. It is a real, authentic piece of Elvis snot.”
“Wow.”
Wow, indeed.
It would seem the King of Rock and Roll used to spray a saline solution up his honker before every show, because, well, I am not sure why, but I assume it made him sing better.
Either that, or he had a thing about blasting water into a body opening.
I am just thankful he was not in to enemas because that would be too weird (and quite gross actually) so let's not go there – ever.
It seems there is no end the bizarre items people are willing to shell out money to own.
Would I pay to own a nose douche, even if it was the King's? No, but you can bet someone will.
A while back some famous movie star type person sold a used hanky on eBay. Yes, someone paid good money for the soiled piece of linen, but at least in this case the money went to charity so I can understand it.
And a few years ago, there was the grilled-cheese sandwich with the likeness of Jesus on it that sold for thousands of dollars.
But when it comes to the ability to sell things at auction, nothing beats the King.
An empty prescription bottle recently sold for US$2,600. I have paid less for cars.
A microphone he used at a concert sold for US$15,000.
Some guy even sold a Styrofoam cup that Elvis took a sip of water from before one of his final concerts – or so the owner said anyway.
But of course, it sold to some sucker, I mean lucky memorabilia fan.
I know Elvis is the icon of rock and roll and probably the most recognizable figure in all of music history, if not all of entertainment, but I just do not understand the borderline psychotic fascination with the man.
Some people have lifted him (which would have required a crane to do in the latter years) to near god-like status. People build shrines to him, impersonate him and basically worship at his blue suede shoes.
He has been dead for decades (sorry folks, but he really is dead) and he is still one of the top money makers in the music industry. Even I have to admit that is impressive.
Don't get me wrong, I am not an Elvis hater, I just don't get it.
I wonder if Elvis would have generated the same response today? Doubtful because there are so many artists out there, and besides PETA would have launched a massive anti-Elvis campaign because just one of those leather jumpsuits took 14 cows to make.
The King is dead, long live his revenue stream.

Light me up

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
Christmas is the time of year of good will toward man, woman, child and, yes, even in-laws.
It is also the time of year hydro executives salivate over.
Throughout the land, countless thousands of people brave the winter chill to get their festive lights strung up in hope that St. Nick will be able to use them as landing lights and visit their home.
Around my homestead, the tradition of putting up the lights unfolds much in the same manner every year. First, I dig through a stack of boxes at the back of the garage looking for the ones marked ‘outdoor lights.’
Of course, I forgot that I forgot to mark them last year, so I get to open every box I think might hold the beacons of the Yule Tide until I get the right one, which is, of course, the last one.
I then hoist the 40-pound ball of green wire and little lights out of its summer hiding spot and spend the next five hours trying to untangle them.
The good-cheer-o-metre is already falling a notch or two as I struggle to separate one set of lights from the other.
For a brief moment I contemplate simply hanging the entire ball of lights from the apple tree in my front yard and calling it art Noel.
The tangle would represent the chaos that can come with Christmas and the lights are beacons of hope in the midst of modern-day madness.
You’re right, I am not buying it either.
Once the lights are untangled and the appropriate amount of ‘special’ eggnog consumed, it is time to put up the glowing orbs of merriment.
Here is where I will impart a piece of wisdom I learned the hard way: always make sure the lights work before you string them up.
After spending hours untangling and stringing the lights, the good-cheer-o-metre takes a serious hit when you plug them in and only half of them work.
Some very un-Christmas like words may form in the back of you mind and you risk being put on the naughty list if those words should accidentally slip out.
Years ago, my wife and I decided we would buy one strand of lights for each Christmas we shared together and then when we are old and grey we can look at all the lights and think, “I am waaaay to old to be climbing an ice-covered ladder in the middle of winter to put these up.”
Or something like that anyway.
We kept the tradition of purchasing a single strand of lights and after a while the front yard was looking pretty good.
However, I began to notice a flaw in the plan. The more lights we got, the more work it was putting them up and the more time I had to spend outside in the cold plugging things in, wrapping them with electrician’s tape and spending countless hours searching for that one burned out bulb.
That messed up bulb has been my festive nemesis on more than one occasion and the longer it takes to find the problem, the more impact is has on the good-cheer-o-metre.
But thankfully, there are people out there who are like a secret Santa with a desire to help and save me from at least some of that work.
Once, such a special person visited our festive display under cover of night and relieved me of a lot of work by running off with several strands of light.
My son was heading to school the next morning and asked, “Hey, dad, what did you do with the lights?”
D-oh.
OK, that’s not exactly what I said, but it was pretty close. About three strands of lights had been ‘liberated’ from our front yard.
The good-cheer-o-metre took a definite hit, but in keeping with the love of the season I got over the act of a Scrooge and thought, “Oh well, they must have needed them more than I did.”
That’s what I thought, honest.
Despite the act of Grinchery by unknown bad guys, we continued with our humble decorations.
But of course, there is always that one guy in the ‘hood who has more decorations than Santa’s workshop.
You know the guy. He has so many lights UFOs think it’s a homing beacon.
With around seven-million lights, 4,000 figurines and at least 500 Santas of all shapes and sizes, the yard lights up the night sky to the point where you need sunglasses just to drive past. It generates so much heat the snow is starting to melt four houses down.
It is without question the brightest and boldest house in the ‘hood.
I wonder if he is compensating for something.

You leech me, I punch you

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
There is spa right here in Canada that features blood letting as one of its attractions.
Some spas offer a room with a hot tub in it or a beautiful view, but these guys figure the real money is in letting ancient swamp dwellers suck the blood out of people.
Great business plan guys, what else do you have going on? Perhaps full body massages by anacondas, or using pit bulls as motivation for the running club?
The leeches are used for a treatment the resort calls Ratamokshana, which I believe is an ancient Monrovian word meaning, “There’s one born every minute.”
According to the spa people, letting a slimy, bloated slug look-a-like suck your blood is good for you.
I disagree, and anyone trying to stick a leech onto me is going to learn what a napalm enema feels like.
The stupidest part about this is I am sure there are people out there paying good money to have some weirdo put leeches all over them.
Someone somewhere will argue blood letting is an age-old method of treating ailments and is actually good for you.
Well guess what Sparky, I am pretty sure modern science has done away with the need for letting a water-dwelling mass of black goo suck my plasma.
Ancient ‘doctors’ also used to drill holes in your head to let out evil spirits, so I think we can pretty much rule out Merlin and his apprentice as the last word in medical care.
I just hope the leech idea doesn’t catch on with the government or they will soon be recommending the Swamp Thing open an office in the nearest bog and start his own medical practice as a form of cost saving.
Of course, should a politician need such a treatment they would get it for free – professional courtesy I think they call it.
I have interacted with leeches in the past and I cannot say they are something I would intentionally seek out. In fact, I am pretty sure I would make a lot of effort to avoid them and I certainly would not pay money to have someone put the little blighters on me - that I guarantee.
So if I am spending so much energy avoiding them, how did I come in contact with the vampire slugs you ask? There was a lake near where I grew up that we used to go swimming in quite a bit. It was a mountain lake with clear water, fish, birds and the occasional leech.
Looking down and seeing one of those slimy implements of ickyness latched onto you was enough to make you scream like a small frightened child. Actually, I was a small frightened child at the time, but I doubt my reaction would be much different today.
The lake was not infested with the disgusting critters, but once in a while you would see someone come out of the water with a black thing stuck to their back.
It was then that you had a decision to make. Should you tell the person about the unwanted passenger, or should you tell your friends first so you could all be grossed out in a fun sort of way.
Typically you would tell your friends, then the person. This would provide the best of both worlds allowing you to be grossed out before being the hero and saving the person from the blood sucker.
The leeches tended to stay near an area that had bushes and plants growing in the water so if you avoided the plants, you generally avoided the leeches.
But of course, there is always some cranially challenged swimmer who splashed too close to the bushes and ends up getting a leech treatment for free.

Friday, December 11, 2009

Done in record time

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
How sweet it is.
Sitting at my computer, I took a glance at the calendar and noticed it is the second week of December.
Why is that so sweet you ask?
Is the light covering of snow gracing the land making me feel all warm and cozy inside as I kick back with a hot chocolate? Nope.
Is it the Christmas cheer that is growing throughout the city as people are a little nicer to each other? Nope again.
It is because I have finished my Christmas shopping. I bet you ladies never saw that one coming. That has got to be a new record for just about any man on the planet.
I have two full weeks to go before the big day and I am done, finished, kaputzki on the shopski, I have purchased all I need for that special day for my wife, parents and siblings.
I am sorry if I have broken some sort of man code that says guys cannot finish their Christmas shopping early, but to my detractors and critics who claim I have broken this unwritten rule I say – bite me. It feels great to be done so early and while you last-minute shoppers are bouncing off other last-minute shoppers and ripping around the mall like a fart in a hurricane, I will be kicking back with a 'special' eggnog wondering how the less-organized people are making out.
Getting the shopping done early has another bonus: those two weeks might be enough time for me to wrap the presents, as I am possibly the worst gift wrapper upper in the world.
Anything I wrap looks like it was done by Stevie Wonder while hanging upside down over an alligator pit.
I have never used the services of the mall wrappers who adorn your gift with fancy paper and bows, because it would be too obvious I did not do the wrapping.
I like to provide the personal touch of wrapping the gift myself. Besides, it is fun watching my wife wrestle with the present as she tries to open it.
You see, I make up for my lack of wrapping skills with copious amounts of tape, something I learned from my dad.
Whenever Pops mails us a package, it has enough duct tape on it to rebuild the space shuttle. It typically takes about 20 minutes and the use of power tools to open, but at least it is secure and Dad is doing his part to boost the economy by purchasing duct tape by the crate.
But when it comes to Christmas shopping, I was not always so efficient. Not by a long shot.
I used to be one of those lunatics who would start hitting the malls around Dec. 23 or so. It was like a sport for me back then. There was strategy involved as you cut through various aisles trying to get to the perfect gift before some other hapless husband happens to put a hand on it. Some physicality comes in to play as men push and shove each other to get what they need so the Missus won't stick a candy cane up their nose come Christmas morning.
The latest I have ever left my Xmas shopping was Dec. 24. Yup, one year I literally waited until the last moment possible.
Not the smartest move I have ever made and one I have not made since.
Even though I finished my shopping early this year, it does not mean I rushed in choosing my gifts, especially for the Missus. I had a pretty good idea of what to get her before I even headed out for the first swipe of the debit card.
The key is to pay attention to subtle hints that may be dropped when she spots a sweater in a store that she likes.
Hints such as, “It sure would be nice if someone got me that sweater for Christmas.”
It's all about paying attention to the little things.

Friday, December 4, 2009

What I know I know

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
I have learned many things during my time on this earth.
From childhood to adulthood, life has been one big lesson after another.
One of the most important things I learned as a youngster was, no matter how good your intentions, your cat does not need swimming lessons.
Trust me on this one folks, that has bad idea written all over it.
Such action gives you a bonus lesson on just how strong - and sharp - a cat can be in a time of feline crisis.
Around that same time, I also learned it is not the best plan to jump up and down in the bathtub. It is only a bad idea of you don't want to fall on the edge of the tub, driving your top teeth through your lower lip causing the blood to flow line wine at a frat party. If you are into stuff like that, then go ahead and have fun.
In my pre-teen years I received many lessons in how gravity works. It's amazing how educational falling out of a tree can be, once you regain consciousness that is.
You not only learn about gravity, but about what happens to the human body when it endures a rapid deceleration after falling from about 10 feet up. Like introducing your cat to the world of water sports, trees offer multiple lessons. You learn that grass is not a very soft thing to land on and you also get the added knowledge of what it feels like to have every last molecule of air forced from your lungs.
Racing downhill on a bike provided multiple lessons as well. Gravity once again plays a role, but the real lesson is in the first aid skills you develop, such as how to stop the bleeding, the best way to clean a wound and how to put on six feet of medical gauze.
That lesson led to an up close and personal look at how the body heals itself. I got to watch how scabs form, how they eventually fall off and the cool scar they leave when it is all over.
This was a lesson I would learn several times actually. I never said I was the brightest bulb in the marquee.
As I reached the teen years, I embraced the attitude that comes with them, but I quickly learned to never (and I mean ever) say to your dad, “What are you going to do about it.”
I found out real fast what he was going to do about it and it was a learning experience to be remembered. I may be dumb, but I ain't stupid.
As the teen years progressed, I learned police do not like it when you call them a crusty butt hair.
It tends to make them rather annoyed actually, usually leading to a vehicle search and having your name put on the every-single-cop-in-the-city-will-be-looking-out-for-you list.
Unfortunately, I was well past my teens before I learned that kind smart-ass attitude will not help your cause in the least.
When I had children, I learned I really wasn't that busy pre-child. Before the little ones started arriving, I thought life was crazy busy. With two or three things to do that whole day, how can I keep up?
Now that my home has been invaded by kids (I know it's my own doing) I do two or three things before breakfast.
More recently, I learned sucking in your gut does not make you weigh less when you jump on the scale.
All those old injuries I brushed off in my youth have taught me the value of ibuprofen (which I purchase by the crate.)
And in marriage I have learned a happy wife makes for a happy life and no matter what, the mother-in-law is always welcome in your home (even when you would rather chew tinfoil).

Monday, November 30, 2009

Winter: what a shock

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
While reading a news report a couple of weeks ago about a skiff of snow that hit the Valley bottom, one media outlet declared “Snow catches people off guard.”
How is that possible? It's an entire season. Are these same people walking around the summer wearing heavy coats, complaining the heat caught them by surprise?
This is how things work in this fine country: spring gives way to summer, summer gives way to fall, fall gives way to winter and when winter arrives the white stuff blankets the Valley.
It happens every single year.
Another thing that happens every single year is the snow “catches people by surprise.”
Like I said, winter happens every year, but as the first flakes of the year fall upon the land, people flock to the local tire stores and are stunned to find a line up of other people also getting winter treads.
It's too bad there was not some sort of warning the snow was coming. Perhaps a device with numbers, days of the week and months on it that would indicate what season it is.
I do not know what to call this device, but it sure would come in handy to help people figure out roughly when winter is going to make an appearance. We could even hang it on the wall where it would be easy to see.
Perhaps the old timers, which is pretty much anyone over two years old, could tell those drivers that every year, winter happens in Canada.
That way they will not be caught by surprise.
There are also a few fender benders and police always issue a formal statement urging people to slow down and drive with caution. Well, no d'uh.
Do we really need to be told this bit of information?
“The police have not officially said to drive cautiously so I guess I can rip around the snow with my bald all seasons at a crazy rate of speed.”But even after the all-important warning is issued, there are still those bonehead few who know they are too good a driver to have to obey those pesky recommendations like speed limits, winter tires or having a brain.
As a young lad, I may have occasionally disregarded the recommendation of the constabulary to drive a little more cautiously in the white stuff. And when I say 'may have' what I mean is, “Yeee-haaaw, this is some good fun.”
Yes, I admit it. It was me. I was that scary little snot-nosed punk who went blasting past you at warp factor gazzillion through a blanket of fresh powder.
By the grace of a kind and loving god, I was never in a serious accident (the key word being serious) or caused any injury or harm to myself or anyone else on the planet.
Unintentionally parking in the ditch does not count as an accident, and that fence jumped out of no where, honest.
Now that I am much older, wiser, fatter and balder, I can appreciate the danger I was putting myself and others in. Once again, thank you God that no harm came from my youthful exuberance (also known as immature stupidity, which ever you prefer.)
I am now all about the safety, but let's keep it within reason shall we. Slow down, yes. Go so slow the speedometer on my car does not even register, that might be a little much.
The first snow fall of the year (you know, the one that catches everyone by surprise) is usually the toughest one to drive in because you have to re-learn how a car handles in the snow.
I can appreciate that, but travelling down the road at a whopping 10 km/h, goes a little over the top in terms of defensive driving.
Let's be careful, but not ridiculous.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

When nerds roamed the earth

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
I had to stop by my kid’s elementary school the other day to drop something off and was amazed at how little had changed since I was a member of the early education system.
I don’t mean the actual building, but the kids themselves.
Within minutes I could spot the nerds, cool kids, bad kids and the jocks.
Nature just has a way of separating the herd into appropriate clusters. It’s the whole birds of a feather thing.
I began to look back on my elementary years and all sorts of memories came flooding back until I was once again curled up in the corner of the room, rubbing my head and chanting, “make the bad thoughts go away, make the bad thoughts go away.”
In case you haven’t figured it out, school was not exactly a great time for me. I know I hide it well, but sometimes people can guess school was about as much fun as eyeball surgery without anesthetic – only more painful.
As if nature did not already have a way of sorting things out, there were all these little rituals that helped place the students in their appropriate groups.
Elementary school is a prime example of the strong shall survive and the weak shall be picked last for every sporting event.
I am not sure who came up with this one, but when I was in school this is how teams were selected for a lunch-hour game of football or whatever: the two top jocks would start picking kids and the lesser players would all huddle together, each secretly hoping they weren’t going to be the last to be chosen.
One by one, names would be called out until a handful of sad, pathetic athlete wannabes were left standing in front of everyone looking not unlike puppies in the store window hoping someone will pick them.
The worst, of course, is being the last one to be called.
“OK, I choose Tommy.”
“Tommy? You chose Tommy over me? He has two broken legs and a neck brace on.”
“I know, and your point is.”
It’s not good for your self esteem when a kid who was hit by a truck and spent three weeks in a coma is thought to be more beneficial to the team than you are.
Not that I am speaking from experience or anything. I heard about it from some one, yeah, that’s right, I heard about it.
I was never picked last for anything actually, which basically means I was not even a good enough nerd to be the chief nerd, I was kind of a middle-of-the-road nerd.
Unless you are among the first half or so selected, it is a cruel way to pick a team. As the numbers dwindle, it sort of turns into a nerd parade, where people driving by in their cars glance over and say, “Oh, look honey, it’s a flock of nerds. Get the camera.”
The non-nerds will tell their children tales of the nerd herd.
“Yes my son, there was a day when nerds roamed this land. They were all over this field, free range nerds I liked to call them. Yup, it was quite a sight to see.”
Due to political correctness, I doubt there are any official nerds in the school system anymore.
I am sure there are a lot of cool-challenged kids out there who are also suffering from a social skills deficiency, but actual nerds, not any more.
A nerd by any other name – will still likely be picked last for a sports team.
And there is nothing wrong with going to the junior high school dance by yourself. I read that even Brad Pitt could not get a date for his school’s big dance.
OK, I made that whole Brad Pitt thing up, but a guy can always hope can’t he.
Entering high school proved interesting because with three elementary schools funneling into one melting pot of youthfulness, the nerd population grew accordingly.
We, um, er, I mean the nerds, would spot each other in the hallway and have an instant comraderie born of the need for survival.
Life could be hard for the nerd and we, er, um, I mean they often travelled in packs for self defense as much as mutual bonding.
The weaker nerds would get picked off by marauding gangs of jocks and be stuffed in garbage cans while the stronger nerds made good their escape.
Eventually, the nerds grew up, became computer experts or whatever and hired the jocks – who failed to take their sports career beyond high school – to mow their lawns and wash their cars.

Death of a bug

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
I saw it coming about 100 metres away.
At first it was this black speck off in the distance, but as I cruised down the highway at the legally posted speed limit on my Katana, the black dot got bigger and bigger until it looked like an eagle wearing a bug costume.
It was Jurassic bug.
This sucker was huge. I could literally see it coming. There was little I could do to avoid it as it was flying right down the middle of the road. I had only a few seconds between spotting it and hitting it, or it hitting me.
It was kind of like the cow of bugs – too dumb to get out of the way.
This thing was of such bulk I actually felt it hit my shoulder with a thud/splat combination.
I felt kind of bad because I am sure I had just killed the last of an ancient, 10-billion year old line of bugs that used to buzz T-Rex and his friends.
Somehow this thing had survived in some sort of stasis and awoke just seconds before flying into my riding jacket at 90 kilometres an hour (the posted speed limit.)
When I got to work I was mildly repulsed at the bug guts-black jacket motif I had created.
A buddy of mine took a junebug to the visor once at about 160 k.p.h. and the impact actually damaged the clear plastic screen bolted to his cranium protector.
It snapped his head back and nearly knocked him off his bike, but it also gave him a great story to tell about flying critters and bikes without windjammers.
Another bug incident happened to a different friend who was riding down a lonely road late at night.
He was ahead of me and as he came around a tight corner and under a street light, he rode into a solid mass of white moths.
He gritted his teeth and plowed through. Problem was, when he gritted his teeth he must have opened his lips a little bit because he immediately pulled over and scrapped several of the winged beasts from his pearly whites.
I had a full-face helmet on so I just sat back, watched and had good chuckle as he scrapped bug guts from his gums.
It is reasons like this I cannot understand how anyone can ride a motorcycle without some sort of face shield. Be it a big windscreen, a full-faced helmet or something.
Years ago when I used to have a life, a few of us would get together and go screaming down to the Coast for a couple of days of fun and frivolity.
Often we would pop into a bike shop in Washington State where – at the time anyway – riders did not have to wear a helmet.
I can remember crossing the border, strapping the helmet to the back of the bike and thinking, “Is this ever going to be cool, tearing down the road, the wind in your face feeling free.”
I had thoughts alright, but they were more along the lines of, “Does this ever suck. The wind is plastering my face and all the dirt, grit and bugs are sandblasting my pretty features.”
OK pretty is waaaay too much of a stretch, but if anyone wanted to get rid of wrinkles, just go for a high-speed ride without a helmet and all the crap in the air would blast those wrinkles away.
Of course if you crash without a helmet, wrinkles would be the least of your worries.
If you survive cracking your cranium, there is a good chance you will be getting crayons for Christmas for the rest of your life.
I think I rode for about five minutes without a helmet before pulling over and putting that wonderful piece of cloth, foam and fibreglass back on.
I did learn one thing – you do have to be tough to ride without a helmet – you might not be too bright, but you have to be tough.
I kept looking at the ground and thinking the only thing between my skull and the pavement was a thin layer of hair and for me it was a very thin layer of hair.
I also thought about that junebug my friend encountered and realized riding without a helmet is not that cool after all.
In less time than it takes to boil and egg, I accepted I was a wimp and wanted my helmet back. I missed the protection if offered and felt naked without it and nobody wants to see me naked – trust me on this one.
I have to shower in the dark because I do not even want to see myself naked.
Anyway, with my favourite piece of riding gear strapped firmly where it should be the ride continued and life was good – and relatively bug free.

Friday, November 13, 2009

Speck-tacular view

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
It was supposed to be a nice leisurely stroll with the family hound through the woods of one of our lovely provincial parks.
Instead, it was an agonizing journey of pain and discomfort all because of a tiny, little piece of tree bark.
As luck would have it that tiny, little piece of tree bark managed to hit me square in the eye.
At first, it was no big deal. Things hit people in the eye all the time and this felt no different that any other speck of whatever that has landed on my peepers.
So, I pulled the upper eyelid over the lower (something I learned in first aid), and felt I had resolved the issue as I had many times in the past. However, the speck had a different plan.
As we kept walking I noticed my eye was stinging a little bit and by the halfway mark of the walk I could not keep the eye open and it was watering like Brian Mulroney's mouth at mention of the word kickback.
Of course, it had to be at the exact halfway mark of the stroll when the speck decided to make a full-fledged attack on my eyeball.
That meant at least a 20-minute to walk back to the car and then a 15-minute drive home, all the while I was in so much discomfort I literally could not see. Fun times for sure.
When we finally got home, I rinsed my eye with 326 gallons of water, and not Canadian gallons, but those big ol' American gallons.
Problem was, the eye was still killing me. My wife put a patch on my eye so I would not irritate it any further, and off we went to the walk-in clinic.
At 6'4” it is already hard to blend in to the crowd, but throw a big, white patch on one eye and I might as well have been holding a sign that said, 'Hey everyone, look at my gimpy eye.'
Too bad it did not happen on Halloween, because I could have dressed like a pirate no one would have been the wiser.
While waiting in the doctor's office, I took the patch off and asked my wife if I looked better without it. The look of horror on her face said it all and I put the patch back on.
It would seem my right eye had swollen up to just slightly smaller than the eye of a blue whale and was red enough to guide Santa's sleigh.
I told the doc what happened, she flushed the eye with some sort of freezing, antibacterial, voodoo potion and within a minute the eye felt better. Mind you after how it had been feeling, having a crow peck it out and fly away with it would have felt better.
I also had a small cut on the eyeball itself which was the main cause of the discomfort. Leaving the doctor's office I climbed in the car and looked in the mirror.
“Holy moly, what the hell is that,” I exclaimed while looking at the deformed, Quasimoto-esk looking eyeball. It really did look terrible.
I looked like I went a couple rounds with Evander Holyfield, but instead I just had my butt kicked by a piece of wood that was a million times smaller than I was.
Because I wasn't having enough fun, the goop Doctor Feelgood put in my eye was orange, and some of it had overflowed, so not only was my eye big and puffy, but the eyelids top and bottom were a funky orange colour.
Having missed lunch, the Missus and I stopped for a bite to eat. She asked if I wanted to wash the orange stuff off, but I was hungry, I did not want to even touch the eye and besides I figured I would give people something to talk about.
People did not mean to stare, but c'mon who wouldn't look at a big puffy orange eyeball?
I know I would.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Hurry up and slow down

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
Is there an optional speed limit no one has told me about?
Maybe it is a plot by some sort of secret society to make me late everywhere I go because for some reason I always – and I do mean always – get stuck behind some guy who is driving significantly below the posted speed limit.
The other day I was stuck behind Sponge Bob Slow Pants who decided to cruise down a 50 kilometre-an-hour stretch of road at a blistering 30 km/h.
He actually reached 40 km/h at one point before hitting the brakes and bringing it down to a much more sensible snails pace.
People were walking along the road and he was waving them past and yelling, “Go around. Go around.”
Eventually Sheriff Slow Poke and The Barely Moving Posse turned off the road and I managed to reach a death-defying 50 km/h until I came to the highway.
I was then able to maintain the speed limit all the way along the four-lane portion of the highway – until I reached a two-lane section, then guess who was in front of me?
Seeing as the posted speed limit was 80 km/h it made perfect sense for this guy to travel at 60 km/h.
That 80 km/h is more of a suggestion than anything else and besides, who needs to get where they are going on time anyway?
I am not saying drivers should rip along the highway at warp factor five, all I ask is they do the speed limit.
That’s all - nothing more and definitely nothing less.
My wife has even noticed I always seem to get behind the guy who finds the posted speed limits outrageous and knows the world is a safer place if everyone would just slow down.
Never mind the 576 cars lined up behind him, they can just slow it down and enjoy the drive.
Perhaps it is some sort of cosmic payback for my youth. As a teen I had been known to drive in a manner not in accordance with the posted speed limit.
I thought about going to an exorcist because it seemed my right foot was possessed and wouldn’t listen to my brain when told to ease off the gas peddle.
The only time my foot would listen was when my brain noticed those pretty red and blue lights flashing in the rearview mirror.
Maybe by always getting stuck behind Johnny Go Slowly it will all balance out in the end. When the distance I have travelled in my life time is compared to the amount of time it took to get there, it will be exactly the speed limit.
I also have the unique ability to hit just about every single light red. Again, I am not exaggerating.
I live in Vernon and work in Kelowna, so that means I get to commute five days a week (gas companies love me.)
There are 10 traffic lights between the office and my home. I have driven the road so often I actually know how many lights there are and I have taken the time to count and memorize the number – how sad is that.
Anyway, on any given day I manage to hit the vast majority of those lights red. For a few days in a row I actually hit every single light red and that includes two pedestrian-controlled lights.
I stopped at one light and there was not another car to be seen in any direction, but as soon as I approached the intersection – yellow, red, stop.
I have to admit I found this extremely annoying and often found myself looking to the heavens and asking, “Why? Why to I have to hit every light red?”I never did get an answer, but it may just be God teaching me the value of patience. I don’t have a problem with that, I just wish it would happen faster so I could get through those green lights on occasion.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Keeping it clean

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
It’s interesting how men and women have different versions of clean.
A guy could look at a room and think, ‘Yup, that looks good to me.’
A woman could look at the same room and wonder what kind of barbaric hand-to-hand battle had occurred to make such a mess.
The difference is most noticeable when it comes to spring cleaning.
For a guy, spring cleaning means moving the couch when he vacuums. For a woman it means dismantling the couch, vacuuming every square inch of it and reassembling it to better than original.
When it comes to cleaning, men and women just do things differently.
For example, a few years ago my wife tried a little experiment.
There was a pair of clean wool socks next to my side of the bed. My wife was determined to leave them until I put them away.
After a few weeks, she was astounded they were still there.
“Those socks have been there for weeks and you haven’t even noticed.”To which I replied, “That’s where you are wrong. I did notice I just didn’t care. There’s a difference.”
I figured the socks weren’t hurting anyone, they were out of the way and if I needed them I knew where they were.
Spring cleaning for a guy means going through his closet and throwing out a couple of shirts that are too torn to wear even under a sweater and digging out the several pairs of pants that have mysteriously shrunk over the winter.
For a woman, it means hauling every single item of clothing out of the closet, trying each item on, assessing their value and comparing current fashion styles with what they have to determine what goes and what stays.
The process can take days.
“Does this still look good on me?”
“Yes it does.”
“No, I don’t think it does, I’m going to get rid of it.”
That’s what I meant to say actually, but I decided to say something else to see if you were on your game or not.
Helping in this area is not something for a man. Ladies, for future reference, call a friend to come over if you want an opinion on clothes.
Unless it is lingerie, most guys are not too interested in what you dig out of the closet.
And please, do not ask the question every man dreads, “Does this make me look fat?”
Even prehistoric cave men knew the answer to this one.
When the little woman threw on the latest in Wooly Mammoth fashion and looked at hubby while asking the infamous question, even a walnut-brained Neanderthal new enough to grunt, “No dear,” lest he get a brontosaurus bone upside the head.
The lady of the house could weigh slightly less than a Volkswagen Beetle and the universal answer would still be ‘No.’
The most frightening area of spring cleaning is the kid’s rooms.
Grown men have fled in terror as the missus’ eyes glass over with spring-cleaning fever and she seeks recruits to help with the task.
The woman will dig into the job with energy typically reserved for a piranha feeding frenzy.
Every toy car, gadget and plastic super hero has its own specific place.
I did not know this. To me, everything with wheels went in the car bin, super heroes went in another bin and whatever did not fall into those categories went in whatever bin still had room in it.
Again, for the cleaning-crazed woman of the house the job is an all day affair. For a guy it’s a two-hour task broken up by time spent playing with some of the cooler toys.
It is times like this I am thankful for weeds so I can get out of the house where all I have to worry about are bee stings and burning nettle.

Here comes the swine

BY DARREN HANDSCHUH
Like I said, it was just a matter of time.
I predicted the dreaded ailment that had popped up in my humble abode a couple of weeks ago would eventually get yours truly, and I was right.
With two of three kids down with a flu-like ailment, I knew I was on the list.
My wife fell ill, which rarely happens, so I resigned myself to the fact there was nothing I could do to stop the germs from invading my middle-aged body.
I had as much chance of dodging the bug as a Gordon Campbell does of getting thank you cards for bringing in the HST. It's just not going to happen.
And if you are gonna get a flu, you might as well get the big one. Yup, we were struck down by the much talked about swine flu.
Was it bad?
Yes, it has lasted longer than any ailment I have had (I am going on two weeks of feeling icky) but it wasn't as intense as other bugs.
I had a case of the Norwalk virus a decade or so ago and it was the only time in my life I have prayed for either healing or death – both of which would have been a relief from how I was feeling.
The Norwalk is the barfing, scooting, dear-God-whatever-I-did-to-deserve-this-I am-sorry kind of flu – which is the kind I hate the most.
But don't get me wrong, the pig ailment was no trip to the farm either. It had the everything-hurts quality to it, but at least you weren't barfing so hard your liver fell out.
Fever, aches, pains, being incredibly tired and a chest so tight it feels like a fat guy is sitting on it was what the swine brought to my home.
At the height of the viral invasion I missed a few days of work (you have to look at the bright side of things), during which time I realized daytime TV is really bad, like evening TV is a bastion of high-quality entertainment.
When I returned to work, the reaction from my co-workers looked like it was scripted.
“So, how are you feeling?”
“Oh, not too bad. Better than the last few days.”
“So was it the swine flu?”“Yup, the doc is pretty sure.”
At that point, everyone who engaged in the conversation would take a step backward, involuntary or not, several people did it.
According to the doc and my wife, who is a nurse, I was beyond the contagious stage of the ailment when I returned to work, but just admitting you had the swine is enough to drive people away.
Hmmm, I wonder if I called the in laws and mentioned...
Anyway, the H1N1 was not exactly a preferred way to spend my time. It is kind of weird because I know some people who had it and barely felt any ill effects at all.
Then there were others, like myself, who were knocked flat on their backs – literally – by the global virus.
I can see why the swine is so dangerous. For people with respiratory challenges, it could present a very serious problem.
I am not exactly the picture of health – unless the picture is a flabby, pasty white, bald guy – but I have been blessed with strong lungs and a fairly decent immune system, but still the H1N1 took a pretty good chunk out of my week.
But at least the worst is behind me, as far as the swine goes. I hope it is anyway.
I ingested enough flu medication to make an elephant loopy, but when war is declared, one must use every weapon available.
So for those who haven't got it yet, good luck and I hope the swine passes you by. For all my fellow pork ailment sufferers, think of how much you will appreciate being healthy when that day comes.

Saturday, October 24, 2009

I know I'm next

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
I know it is just a matter of time.
Eventually it will get me, and I am not looking forward to it at all.
You see, I have three kids in school and that means every single bug that is running around the city will end up in my home.
I sort of feel like a condemned man: you know it's going to happen, there is no escaping it.
Currently two of the brood have some form of illness .
Junior No. 1 has the flu, not the throwing up until your spleen goes numb flu, but the chilly, achy, coughing, feeling crappy, I've-fallen-and-I-don't-want-to-get-up kind of flu.
That kind of flu I can live with actually. You may be out of commission for a few days, but it is the barfing-so-hard-your-hair-hurts flu I really hate, and I don't even have that much hair, well, not on my head anyway.
Junior No. 2 has a cold and sounds like a seal during mating season. His best friend has the same cold and the two hack and cough the day away, sometimes in perfect stereo, which means double the germs swirling around my home, with me in the bullseye.
Like I said, it is only a matter of time before one of the ailments strikes me down, and I hate being sick.
Of course the big concern right now is the swine flu, which also goes by the much-less gripping name of the H1N1.
I don't even know what H1N1 stands for, but I do know it is one nasty bug that I would rather avoid than play host to.
As far as I know the ailment named after a pig has not landed in my home and I hope it stays that way, but there is no shortage of viruses more than willing to pay us a visit.
And as flu and cold season gets into full swing, the germ incubator called school will be the first place the bugs head.
In an effort to combat the germ invasion, I use hand sanitizer by the gallon. It is almost to the point where I am pouring the stuff in an industrial-sized sprayer and hosing down the house. Just because I am destined to become ill doesn't mean I won't go down fighting.
Door knobs, once simply device used to open doors, have now become a thing of dread. I can't actually see all the little germs dancing around the brass surface, but they are there, waiting, always waiting.
And don't even get me started on the 'OK' button of an ATM machine. That is the one button everyone has to touch.
I know this is sounding rather Howard Hughes-ish, but the older I get, which I do every single day, the less I want to have a cold or a flu.
I am not running around in a sterilized suit or anything (but the thought has crossed my mind), I am just being cautious.
When I was younger, I could pretty much ignore a cold and just carried on as normal, but as Father Time continues to slap me around, colds seem a lot harder to tolerate.
The flu has always been a problem and has shut me down a few times, and with the swine making the rounds, one can never be too careful.
Fortunately I married a nurse, so medical expertise is close at hand.
“Honey, I don't know what's wrong with me. I think I have anthrax or the plague or something. My stomach is kind of burning and its making these weird rumbling sounds.”
“It's called being hungry, go get something to eat.”
“So I don't have dengue fever then? Are you sure? Maybe I have malaria. Is there malaria in the Okanagan? What if it's Congo-Crimean hemorrhagic fever? What will I do then?”Fortunately my wife is also very patient.

Friday, October 16, 2009

Dogs don't need custumes

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
I had a good chuckle over it actually.
The 'it' I am referring to is Halloween costumes for dogs.
I saw a story on how people dress their dogs up for the annual candy gathering extravaganza, and I found the whole thing rather amusing in a you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me sort of way.
One lady even dresses her two pugs in different costumes year after year. One pug was brown, the other black, so their costumes matched accordingly.
There is professional help available for people who feel a need to dress their pooch up like a flower or super hero.
I know people dress their hounds in jackets, sweaters and even little booties, but at least these clothes have a functional purpose.
Bowser needs to be kept warm in the winter, so there is a valid reason.
But a Halloween costume for a hound? That I do not get – at all.
Sure, I will dress up my children and tell them to run around the darkened city streets soliciting candy from strangers, but I will not dress up a dog.
I have had a dog pretty much my entire life and I have never looked at it and thought, “You know what that dog needs? A frilly flower head piece with a matching skirt.”
But I tip my hat to whoever came up with this scam, er, I mean idea of Halloween costumes for pets.
And of course, there are many suckers, er, I mean pet owners out there who will shell out perfectly good money to make their perfectly good dog look perfectly ridiculous.
There are, of course, numerous outfits from movie stars to monsters to the flower ensemble I mentioned earlier.
The part I dislike the most about the whole Halloween pet costume gimmick is that I did not think of it.
It is like the guy who invented the Pet Rock. A genius through and through. Take a rock, paint it, glue a couple of eyes on it and - whamo – a millionaire is born. Like I said, brilliant.
And like the Pet Rock, costumes for animals are totally pointless. Unless you have taught your dog to ring a doorbell and hold a candy sack in its mouth what's the point of dressing them up.
“Oh, but they are so cute dressed up.”
I got news for ya, God already took care of the cute when it comes to dogs, they really don't need our help.
Surely there has to be something better to spend your money on.
Instead of getting Fluffy that Terminator outfit, maybe sponsor a child in Africa or something.
As you have already guessed, I am not dressing Murphy the Wonder Mutt in any sort of get up.
He will be celebrating Halloween as a little brown dog, which is perfect for him.
The last few Halloweens I have gone out as a middle-aged, pot-bellied, balding father of three, and I must admit, I have that costume down to perfection.
I did dress up as Cher a few years back, my wife was Sonny of course, and everyone agreed I was the ugliest woman they had ever seen, which suited me just fine.
Despite the fact I made Barbara Streisand look like a Florida beach hotty, everyone constantly tried to grab my ample bosom, which was fun until one of them popped, then I looked like a boob-clops, which is sort of like a cyclops only with one, well, you know.
As for the masquerading mutts, all of my friends have dogs and none of them dressed any of their critters up, which is one of the reasons we hang out together.
If I have offended anyone who enjoys putting Fido in a costume, sorry about that. Maybe you could dress the mutt up like a Ninja and it could exact some revenge, like pooping on my front lawn or something without being seen.

Friday, October 9, 2009

Turn it down

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
You often hear people talk about the next generation and “Those young kids this” and “These kids that,” but really, teens and the older folk of the world have a lot in common.
For example, when I go to my parents for a visit, my dad has the TV just loud enough to cause your eardrums to bleed. This works OK for hockey games because it kind of adds to the feel of the event, but do we really need to hear the weather forecast at a volume typically reserved for screaming howler monkeys?
And my kids have the same volume issues as dear ol' dad. When I come home from work, the youngsters have the TV at roughly the same volume as a jet taking off.
My dad does it because 40 years on the railroad has damaged his hearing, and he is closing in on 80 so the old sound detectors don't work as well as they used to.
I have had the hearing of all my kids checked, and they are fine, but they still need to crank up the volume of the TV to the point where the walls vibrate.
“Could you turn that down a bit please?” is often the plea from me and my wife.
“But then I can't hear it,” is often the reply.
Can't hear it? The TV is so loud you can hear it in space.
The boob tube does eventually have its volume toned down. Sometimes it takes the threat of “Turn it down or turn it off,” but the volume does drop. I am not sure why they need it so loud.
I shouldn't be surprised really, because as a young lad I had a blistering loud stereo in my car.
This thing could be heard from at least three blocks away, and if you had the windows rolled up you were actually at risk for a brain hemorrhage from the vibration of the woofers.
It seemed cool at the time, but as I age I realize just how much damage I did to my eardrums.
The problem back then was AC/DC just did not sound right unless it was loud enough to make your spleen hurt. And what's the point of having a really loud stereo if you don't play your music really loud?
Loud noises just don't seem to bother youth.
It certainly did not bother me back in the day, which is kinda strange because your hearing is the most acute when you are young, but the louder the better was and still is the mantra of youth.
At a recent wedding I attended, everyone was having a good laugh at the antics of the bridal party as they played different games and did silly things with the bride and groom.
The room was full of several generations of family, but as soon as the music started for the dance, the older set took off like their Metamucil had just kicked in.
It was just a blur of blue hair and canes. It was like an old people stampede, only it was real easy to get out of the way.
Meanwhile the young ones whooped and hollered as the party kicked into high gear. After a couple of songs the middle aged set (that would be me) decided we had done enough partying for one night and headed for the hotel.
Besides, it was closing in on 10 p.m. almost my bed time.
The thing is, by watching my parents I know I am merely looking into the future. One day I too will be a little ol' man sitting in a easy chair, remote in hand wondering why these new TVs aren't loud enough to hear over all the noise the sleeping dog is making.

Friday, October 2, 2009

Waking up is hard to do

BY DARREN HANDSCHUH
You know you are getting old when you hurt yourself sleeping.
How in the hell do you hurt yourself sleeping? All you are doing is lying there.
It is not too challenging a task. You lay down, you count sheep, listen to soothing music, read this column, whatever it takes to get you to Sleepyland.
Once sleep is achieved the hard part is over. Way to go, you accomplished your goal of not being awake. From that point all you have to do is lay there like a lump.
You might roll from side to side a little bit, but the activity is hardly enough to cause an injury, or at least it did not used to be.
The other day I woke up with a sore back. I tried to think of how I had acquired said pain and nothing came to mind. So, near as I could figure, I threw my back out sleeping.
How do you prevent that injury from happening? It's not like I can slow down the pace – I was asleep, the only thing slower than asleep is dead.
Maybe I should work with a personal trainer on how to sleep safely.
It is certainly a far cry from the days of my youth.
When I was a young lad not even getting run over by a dirt bike could slow me down.
I was coming around a corner at a rather excitable speed when I encountered two other dirt bikers doing the same thing in the opposite direction. We spotted each other at the same time and everyone scrambled not to hit each other.
I swerved left and went through the ditch before the front tire introduced itself to a rather large boulder. The rapid deceleration that followed applied only to the bike, as the rider, that would be me, kept moving forward at warp factor five.
I remember going over the handlebars and hitting the ground. I vaguely remember something bumping my shoulder and my helmet. That something was my motorcycle that had made it past the boulder and seemed intent on running me down – which it did.
I lay in the weeds for a second having a good laugh, but to those who saw the mishap it seemed I was having a seizure after being trounced by my own metal steed.
I got up to witness half a dozen people running toward me thinking I was a goner.
I assured my would-be rescuers I was fine and continued riding for the next couple of hours.
The next day I was a little stiff in one shoulder and had a few bruises, but was otherwise fine.
I also had a set of knobby tire tracks going across the back of helmet that was a source of conversation (and pride) for months to follow.
Now, it is all I can do to get out of bed after a vicious night's slumber.
You know you are getting old when sleeping becomes hazardous to your well being.
There is no safety apparatus available for those who suffer from sleep injury.
Perhaps that's why the prayer starts with 'Now I lay be down to sleep...' It is not just a prayer to God for sleep, it is a plea for physical well being while sleeping.
I think a slight variation is in order for us older folk.
“Now I lay be down to sleep, I pray I can rise when the alarm goes beep. If I should cramp before I wake, I pray the Lord my pain to take. If muscles knot and become tight, I pray that God will make it right, and should I die before I wake, well, at least I will not have to worry about waking up in pain. Amen.”

Saturday, September 26, 2009

Farewell, good saw

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
If I may, I would just like to offer a bit of free advice to all my fellow do-it-yourselfers out there: when using a mitre saw, always clamp it to the workbench.
How did I acquire this handy bit of information having never taken a carpentry course in my life? Let's just call it life experience.
I was rebuilding two panel doors for our aging hot tub (and when I say aging I mean it still has the coal shoot leading down to the boiler) and I only had a few cuts to make so in an effort to save time I simply placed the saw on the bench and got on with the job.
Of course the time I saved was somewhere in the neighbourhood of 15 seconds or so, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. (I am not positive, but I am pretty sure those were Custer's last words.)
So without the aid of a C-clamp, I took a few careful measurements and began turning long pieces of wood into short pieces of wood.
Everything went very well, with each cut measuring near perfect. For me this is a major feat.
My wife summed it up the best, “As a carpenter, you are a good reporter.”
I used to be measurement challenged. For some reason what I measured never seemed to be what I needed.
There is the old saying, “Measure twice and cut once,” well, I took it to a new level by measuring twice, cutting, saying bad words, getting another piece of wood, measuring and cutting again. I would repeat the process until I actually cut the length I wanted.
As the years progressed, my measuring and cutting became much more accurate and many trees were spared. The upside of not being able to measure was I always had a supply of firewood at the ready.
I also got to spend time working with power tools and, c'mon, what man doesn't enjoy that.
This day however, would turn out to be a sad day for tools.
I had finished building the door panels, using my beloved mitre saw for the cuts and my air nailer to put all the wood together when I decided they needed a little reinforcing.
Like I said, the job was done, but being a man I wanted to make it better and stronger. I wanted these panels to be able to withstand a nuclear blast.
I debated briefly if I should just let finished panels lie, but I had some wood left over, some time on my hands and a whole bunch of power tools sitting around waiting to be used.
My air compressor chugged away as it filled the tank with air, begging me to do some nailing.
To do that, I would need more little pieces of wood. I did several measurements and began cutting to the desired length.
All was going well. The sawdust was flying, the saw was making the noise that saws make and I was quite content interacting with my implements of construction.
The reinforcing was going splendidly, but I decided I needed just one more piece to finish the job.
I probably could have lived without the last board, but I figured “What the heck, one more cut can't hurt.”Now remember my beloved compound mitre saw was not clamped to the workbench and after making the final cut I brought the handle to the upright position at which point my beloved mitre saw flipped off the table and went crashing to the ground.
It did a complete 180 in the air before landing on the plastic handle which proceeded to explode with the force of that nuclear bomb I was talking about.
I picked up six pieces of the handle and realized my beloved mitre saw had gone to the great tool shed in the sky.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Help, I have teenagers

BY DARREN HANDSCHUH
A friend of mine summed it up very well with two simple words: teenagers suck.That statement was uttered after a particularly endearing conversation with his own teenager that was influenced by the teen's knowledge his parents are the dumbest creatures to ever walk the planet.
All I could do was smile and nod, because I have two teens of my own.
When you first have kids it is all “Goo-goo, gaa-gaa” and “Aren't you cute.” The single-digit years are filled with amazement as you watch your spawn grow and do all these wonderful things.
During those first few years, your sproggs also think you are the coolest, strongest and “bestest” person in the whole wide world. They want to hang out with you and in general enjoy being by your side.
I have found that once the teen years hit, it is good to reflect on those younger years as it helps calm the urge to send them to military school – in Siberia.
When they hit the double-digit years for a while anyway they are still pretty much the same kids they have been for the past decade, but there are dark clouds brewing on the horizon, so enjoy it while you can, because once they hit 13 a switch gets flipped and your bundle of joy turns into a monstrous raging ball of out-of-control hormones with long hair and a bad attitude.
It is like someone put a troll in a Junior suit and sent him to live in my house.
A very hungry troll I might add.
I would just like to caution everyone not to get between a teenager and any type of food product. Doing so could result in injury or harm. I liken it to trying to pull a kitten away from a deranged, rabid pitbull, only the pitbull would have better table manners and eventually the pitbull would be full.
It is also around this age they realize they know everything there is worth knowing in the entire world and us “old people” should listen to their wise words of wisdom because doing so would make life a whole lot easier for everyone.
Teens also have “the look” to go with this new-found self awareness of their blossoming brilliance. Every parent of a teen, boy or girl, has been the recipient of “the look.”
This is a facial expression only a teen can truly pull off and it says one thing, “You are dumb and I am not.”
I do not know anyone with a teen who has not been a recipient of “the look.”
I am not a hostile man in any capacity, but “the look” pushes a deep dark button inside of me that makes me want to go caveman.
You also cannot tell teens a blessed thing. They either already know it, or have decided it is not important enough to be bothered with.
A friend of mine has a cute little girl who is around a year old and being their first they were still in the gushy-mooshy stage of parenting. She would say how sweet the little one is and tell me of the cute thing she is doing.
All I could do is smile. I would relay stories about living with a teen and the doubting look on her face showed she felt her bundle of joy would never turn into a troll with a 'tude.
Once again that smile would cross my face.
“You'll see, oh yes, you will see.”

Friday, September 11, 2009

What else is on?

BY DARREN HANDSCHUH
It was a strangely quiet week at home. A week where the house was silent, where wailing guitars, ringing phones and the constant noise of video games and TV shows were absent.
You see, my wife took the kids and her mom to a wedding in Saskatchewan, leaving me to fend for myself. It was hard, but I dug down deep and did my best to survive a whole week without the chaos of having the kids and all of their friends running around.
The first few days were Nirvana, er, um, I mean it was lonely and I missed them a lot. Sure it was kind of nice not having constant noise, or a mother-in-law calling 386 times a day and there were actually a few leftovers in the fridge, but it was rough and I had to knuckle up and tough it out.
The weirdest part of the entire week was I did not lose the remote for the TV even once.
Not once did I spend half the evening looking for the infernal contraption that allows me to change channels at lightning speed from the comfort of my couch.
Constantly seeing what else is on the boob tube is hardwired into man's genetic make up. Back in the caveman days, our great (and I would imagine smelly) family leader would get a fire going for his brood and would then spend the evening poking it with a stick, moving the logs around etc. which is the caveman version of changing channels.
When TV was introduced, more modern (and hopefully less smelly) family leaders flipped through a couple of channels, but was not obsessed with knowing what is on the next channel – yet.
However, as more channels were added, the more man needed to know what else was on.
Back in the early days of TV, man would have to get off the couch to change the channel, and depending on how strong his desire was to see what else was on, it could be a pretty good workout. Some less athletic men would simply sit close enough to the TV to change the channels without having to leave the comfort of their Lazy Boy.
Then, a great thing happened. It was a day men around the world hailed as one of the greatest technological breakthroughs of the human race. Sure they put a man on the moon and have made medical advances that prolong life, but this was an epic moment that will forever be held high in the lore of human history: the remote control was invented.
What a glorious day that was. Early remote controls had a cable that was just long enough to reach the couch. It was crude technology, but at last man could flip channels to his heart's desire with only the movement of the thumb.
Of course, people would trip over the cable running through the middle of the livingroom, ripping the remote from man's hand causing a spasm, but the next breakthrough was soon to come in the form of a wireless remote.
Channel changing utopia had been reached. No more cables, just man and TV living in harmony. Little did man know the stress such a device would wreak upon the land.
The problem with remotes is they tend to fall between couch cushions, or under magazines, or in other less obvious places causing man to search frantically for the little electric friend. It is a scene played out countless times a day throughout the free world. Only now that man has become dependent on the wireless contraption has its true evil been revealed.
Of course, man could always just pick one show and watch that without the need for a remote, but where's the fun in that.
And don't even get me started on picture in picture.

Friday, September 4, 2009

Painfully dumb move

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
I know, and you are right, it was a dumb idea.
I also know I will have to narrow that down a little as I have more dumb ideas than a politician (if that's possible).
The dumb idea in question was from a few years back when I took my kids to a local skateboard park.
No, I did not jump on a skateboard after a 25-year absence and hurt myself - that would be really dumb.
Instead, I threw on my in-line skates and hurt myself.
While the kids were rolling along doing all sorts of neat little tricks, I was calmly skating my way around the outer perimeter of the skateboard park.
I watched as they went up the quarter pipe and down and around and thought, “That doesn't look so hard.”
I have been ice skating since I was about five years old, so I feel quite comfortable on in-line skates, and this is where the dumb idea began to form.
Slowly, I skated closer and closer to the quarter pipe, while my brain lied to me and told me I could do it.
“C'mon, you played hockey for years. You are a master on skates. What's the difference between ice or cement?” challenged that little red, horned guy on my shoulder.
“How tough can it be for a super jock like yourself. You can do it. Go for it stud.”
The white guy with the halo on the other shoulder was trying to offer a cautionary word or two, but the red guy was making such a convincing argument.
“C'mon big man, you can do it. Go up, go down, it will be great. People will be amazed at your skating ability, especially for such an old guy.”
By now I was feeling pretty darned good about my skating prowess and even in my late 30s I knew I possessed the skills of a life-long stunt skater.
“I can do it,” I thought.
The plan was to start slow. I would just go part-way up the ramp, turn and come back down.
No problem, I can do it.
Once I completed the little warm up stunt, I would graduate to more challenging moves and before you know it, I will be the oldest guy in the X Games.
I can do it.
Apparently I couldn't do it. In fact, I could not even come close to doing it. In fact, I only made it less than two feet up the ramp when I realized I should have listened to the little white dude with the halo, who was now sitting back with a rather smug look on his face.
I quickly learned the difference between skating on a nice flat sheet of ice, and in-line skating up a sloped ramp.
My leading skate hit the bottom of the half-pipe and decided it would be best to go north while the rear in-line skate went east sending my stunt south.
I also learned I do not bounce like I used to. Instead of bouncing off the ground, getting up and going again like I did as a young lad, I landed with a thump that held absolutely no bounce at all.
I didn't even slide or anything, just - WHAM – and down I was.
I got up and tried to look cool, which wasn't too hard because people (much younger people) were falling around the place all the time.
The truly hard part was not showing how much pain I was in. I had a bruise on my hip that covered roughly 48 per cent of my body.
That will happen when you thud rather than bounce.
The pain in my hip could have been a lot worse had I not used my wrist, elbow and shoulder to break the fall. Fortunately the fall was all that was broken that day.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Spiders do not belong at weddings

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
I recently read a article by local museum curator Ron Candy in which he talked about spiders.
As any one who has read my past columns knows, I do not like spiders. Actually they scare the snot out of me.
In my teen years, my then-girlfriend thought it would be great fun to throw a rather large and ugly spider at me. I am not ashamed, I admit it, I screamed like a frightened school girl on Halloween night.
I then did the spider dance and was generally creeped out for the rest of the day.
In Ron's column, he talked about how beneficial the little critters are. I have never argued their benefit to the world, I have just demanded their execution on sight.
No trial, no jury and no mercy, just straight to the death chamber commonly known as the bottom of my shoe.
The only good spider is a spider that has been smashed into a unrecognizable pile of goo. Now that's my kind of arachnid.
Ron's column talked about how spiders are revered in some cultures. Let's just say I am not from that culture.
Some cultures eat spiders, and I say go ahead because a dead spider is a good spider, just don't invite me over for dinner.
Some cultures keep spiders as pets. Friends of mine have a teen aged son who has a tarantula as a pet. One day she was talking to my wife and said the tarantula had escaped its enclosure.
My wife asked how many times that had happened.
Slamming my foot to the ground as hard as I could my answer was, “Once.”
And I meant it. If I was at their house and the eight-legged horror was walking across the room they would have one less pet to feed (and a carpet to clean.)
Ron goes on to say Hindus in eastern Bengal collect spiders and let them go at a wedding as a sign of good luck.
Who in the blue hell thinks a small army of spiders crawling all over the place is good luck. I would rather have the wedding guests stick pencils up my nose for luck.
It might be good luck for my wife because she could start our marriage by cashing in my life insurance. If there are 100 people at the wedding and each one of them let even one spider go, that would be it for me. I would see all these little eight-legged nasties running around and I would be out of there so fast the wind from me leaving would knock people over.
But if you think that is bad, Ron goes on to describe another tradition in Egypt where it is common practice to place a spider in the bed of the newly married couple.
OK, hold it. Stop right there. Folks, you have just crossed the line.
Putting a spider in my bed is quite possibly the worst idea I have ever heard. Can you imagine being all in love and happy about the nuptials only to find a bug-eyed monster staring back at you from the honeymoon love lounger?
It would be the shortest honeymoon in the history of honeymoons.
“Honey, why don't you pull the sheets back. I'll be right there.”“Why yes my new wife, that sounds like a great plan.”
“Honey, what was that high-pitched scream? Honey? Honey?”
The next sound would be the door breaking as I ran through it to get out of the room.
Throwing rice and toilet-papering the car is quite enough of a wedding tradition for me thank you.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

The hound is a hunter

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
My dog registered his first official kill the other day.
I know he did the deed because I watched him do it. The assault was over before I could even react.
It was quite impressive actually, kind of like watching the nature channel live. He spotted his target and immediately launched a relentless, spirited attack.
With the speed of a cheetah and the power of a lion, Murphy the Wonder Dog pounced.
It took a a few twists of his body and a couple of snaps with his lethal jaws before he sunk his fangs into his prey, resulting in its death. I must admit, I felt some pride in his killing prowess and now there is one less moth in the world thanks to a 15-pound hound with a wolf complex.
It was a big moth too. Not one of those wimpy little white ones, but a fierce grayish coloured one that are known to frighten small children. I even read on the Internet they have been known to carry weapons and if it was on the Net, then it must be true. Actually I think it was a Far Side cartoon, but still Murphy did not show a trace of fear, only the steel determination of a true killer.
And after he caught the flying insect he did eat it, which I would just like to say is disgusting and is proof dogs will each just about anything.
It took a while to get it down as it was roughly the size of a pigeon. Well, maybe it was not that big, but he still took a few seconds to eat his meal to go. Perhaps he was savouring the flavour or just basking in the glow of a successful kill, who knows.
Never in my life have I looked at a moth and thought, “Hmmm, that looks like a tasty treat.”
Although there are many cultures where people eat bugs. If I was in one of those places I would be known as the skinny dead guy because I would likely starve to death.
But the kill just goes to show you can take the dog out of the forest, but you can't take the wolf out of the dog. Or, dogs are weird, whatever one works best for you.
My son's cat is a true hunter. I know this because we often find the remains of his kills scattered about the yard.
Murphy thinks this is great, which bring me to the question of why do dogs enjoy stinky stuff? Not only do they want to smell it, they want to smell like it.
Murphy found a small pile of what I believe were bird remains in the backyard one day and the only reason I spotted it was because he was rolling in it.
Whenever you see your dog drop their shoulder and roll around with a goofy grin on their face, you know they are up to nothing good, at least not good for the nostrils.
Murphy was flopping around having a grand ol' time and was quite put out when I disposed of the remains.
I guess for dogs, eau de bird guts is a fragrance delight.
Mind you, I have come across some humans who did not smell a whole lot better themselves, and I assume, or I hope anyway, they were not rolling in anything.
These are the folk who take a bath once a year whether they need it or not. Trust me, you need it and you better do it soon because there is a whole lineup of dogs just waiting to roll on you.

Friday, August 21, 2009

Murphy's first kill

bY DARREN HANDSCHUH
My dog registered his first official kill the other day.
I know he did the deed because I watched him do it. The assault was over before I could even react.
It was quite impressive actually, kind of like watching the nature channel live. He spotted his target and immediately launched a relentless, spirited attack.
With the speed of a cheetah and the power of a lion, Murphy the Wonder Dog pounced.
It took a a few twists of his body and a couple of snaps with his lethal jaws before he sunk his fangs into his prey, resulting in its death. I must admit, I felt some pride in his killing prowess and now there is one less moth in the world thanks to a 15-pound hound with a wolf complex.
It was a big moth too. Not one of those wimpy little white ones, but a fierce grayish coloured one that are known to frighten small children. I even read on the Internet they have been known to carry weapons and if it was on the Net, then it must be true. Actually I think it was a Far Side cartoon, but still Murphy did not show a trace of fear, only the steel determination of a true killer.
And after he caught the flying insect he did eat it, which I would just like to say is disgusting and is proof dogs will each just about anything.
It took a while to get it down as it was roughly the size of a pigeon. Well, maybe it was not that big, but he still took a few seconds to eat his meal to go. Perhaps he was savouring the flavour or just basking in the glow of a successful kill, who knows.
Never in my life have I looked at a moth and thought, “Hmmm, that looks like a tasty treat.”
Although there are many cultures where people eat bugs. If I was in one of those places I would be known as the skinny dead guy because I would likely starve to death.
But the kill just goes to show you can take the dog out of the forest, but you can't take the wolf out of the dog. Or, dogs are weird, whatever one works best for you.
My son's cat is a true hunter. I know this because we often find the remains of his kills scattered about the yard.
Murphy thinks this is great, which bring me to the question of why do dogs enjoy stinky stuff? Not only do they want to smell it, they want to smell like it.
Murphy found a small pile of what I believe were bird remains in the backyard one day and the only reason I spotted it was because he was rolling in it.
Whenever you see your dog drop their shoulder and roll around with a goofy grin on their face, you know they are up to nothing good, at least not good for the nostrils.
Murphy was flopping around having a grand ol' time and was quite put out when I disposed of the remains.
I guess for dogs, eau de bird guts is a fragrance delight.
Mind you, I have come across some humans who did not smell a whole lot better themselves, and I assume, or I hope anyway, they were not rolling in anything.
These are the folk who take a bath once a year whether they need it or not. Trust me, you need it and you better do it soon because there is a whole lineup of dogs just waiting to roll on you.

Friday, August 14, 2009

It wasn't my fault

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
Let me start this column by saying in my younger days my friends and I weren’t really bad when we camped, we didn’t crank the stereo or anything, or run around like lunatics, but being young we did camp with some energy.
Overall, we were well-behaved, if not sometimes boisterous in our excitement of spending time with squirrels and ducks of our native land.
The worst night of camping (for those around us I mean) in my history of camping happened when I was a young buck. I was young enough to still be stupid and old enough to know better, but oddly enough this night was not my fault.
It really wasn’t, honest.
The trip started out like any other with a fire, some food and a couple recreational beverages. OK, there were lots of recreational beverages.
This was one of my first adult camping trips and I did so with my new wife, who had been camping since she was a kid.
I really didn’t understand the whole concept of camping, but being all in love, I willingly headed for the hills.
It’s strange, but I don’t remember cooking or eating when I camped in those days. We must have eaten. You can’t go two days without food, although my friend did argue with some conviction that, technically, barley and hops were components of food. Who can argue with logic like that?
The one cooler we brought with us had some grub in it, but it was mainly used to store the barley and hops.
Anyway, on this particular night we were camping with some people we normally didn’t go out with, and that was our first mistake.
One intrepid camper, whom I will call Weanie because it sort of rhymes with his name, decided it would be great sport to drive around the campground and invite everyone he sees to go to our campsite - not his.
After making a trip to the all-impressive outhouse I returned to find a lot of people I did not know lounging around our campsite.
There were roughly 429 people in our campsite, of which I knew seven. Not a good thing.
We told Weanie to stop inviting people and decided to see what the evening would bring. That was our second mistake.
It seems these people had consumed many beverages themselves and were loud lot. We soon had enough of their company and evicted our guests, but not before getting the attention of all the campers around us.
Weanie also had a friend who we all called Stick. Why, because he was dumb as a stick. Anyway, a couple of hours after we turned in for the night, Stick, who had found another party to go to, drove his car into a ditch and got stuck.
He knew one of us, Matt, had a four-wheel-drive truck and decided Matt would be his saviour and pull him out of the weeds.
The next event is kind of blurred by a sleep-induced haze, but I remember hearing this mournful wail coming from far in the distance.
“Maaaaaatt. Maaaaaaaaaaaaaatt.”
My first thought was, ‘Why is a moose calling for Matt in the middle of the night?’ Once my brain woke up enough to figure out what was going on, my second thought was, ‘Good, he is not looking for me.’
I went back to sleep only to be woken up by someone from the other party yelling at the top of their lungs. They were not screaming for help, or really making any sort of intelligible sound, but were just yelling for the sake of yelling.
Brilliant.
Finally someone screamed ‘Shut up’ and he did.
The next day, every person in the campground held us personally responsible for all the commotion. We were told in no uncertain terms if it happened again that night we would be bound, gagged and thrown into the lake never to be seen again.
I tried to explain it was not our fault and the yelling and stuff was from different campers, but there is no reasoning with someone who was up all night listening to a loud drunk guy, so I gave up and accepted we had been branded as disturbers of the peace.
That night we forbade Weanie from inviting anyone to join us and had a much more enjoyable time, as did everyone around us.
There have been two times over the years where I have been the grumpy camper angry with a group of kids who were partying, but I suspect it was divine pay back – even if it wasn’t my fault.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

We want a hound

THIS WAS ORIGINALLY WRITTEN ABOUT 15 MONTHS AGO.

BY DARREN HANDSCHUH
Can we get a dog?
That is the questioned being floated around the family homestead lately, mainly by the children.
We haven’t had a dog for several months after putting our last beast down to end 16 years of pet ownership. She was old, deaf, mostly blind, her hair was falling out and she would bark at the wall for no particular reason so we all agreed it was time for her to go to the great doggy park in the sky, or where ever it is dogs go.
I could tell you I miss her, but ‘thou shall not lie.’
After we put her down, we agreed (OK, I suggested) we go one year without a dog before we consider getting another hound. Well, that year is almost up.
I have to admit, I have been enjoying life without a dog running around barking, digging up the yard, dropping little doggy landmines all over the place and in general being more work than I care to take on at this station in life.
I have been compiling a mental list of the good points and the not-so-good points of owning a relative of the wolf clan.
On the upside, dogs offer companionship and make sure you are never alone. In a house of five people plus their friends and an often-visiting mother-in-law I relish being alone.
In fact, I cherish it. In fact, I look forward to it. In fact, if I didn’t get some alone time I would probably wind up with one of those fancy fashion accessories that magicians are always trying to escape from.
Mind you the dog won’t talk, change the channel or hog the couch, so that argument is iffy at best.
Another good point about a dog is you can play with it and whatnot when you are bored. Correct me if I am wrong, but isn’t that what they invented video games for. And a video game will never make a stinky on the floor.
But the dog is more interactive than a video machine, so the hound will have to get the nod again.
Another good point about a dog is they are a walking food disposal system. If you drop a piece of food on the floor, the mutt will be on it like piranhas on a cow. But, without the dog, the food just sits there, so that is a definite plus to owning such a creature.
OK, there are three points in favour of bringing an entirely different species of life into my home.
Let’s see if we can find a couple drawbacks to adding a furred critter to the fold.
The dog might not get along with the cat, but that is more of the cat’s problem than mine so that one doesn’t really count.
As puppies, canines tend to chew things. We had a dog many years ago that ate all the wood skirting around a shed. I am not kidding. He ate so much wood I was convinced he was terrier crossed with beaver.
He also ate a $10 bill, a couple of cassettes, some Christmas decorations and part of our couch to name just a few of the items he dined on.
Dogs can also be truly gross little critters. I have touched on this briefly in the past, but it is so significant it deserves another mention: dogs eat their own vomit.
Enough said in the gross-out department.
The truly icky thing is I have been witness to such culinary madness. I have also seen dogs eat their own recycled food byproduct commonly known as doo-doo.
Let’s just say I do not let dogs – no matter how big or small – lick me on the face, or on the hand, or even on the sleeve of my jacket if I can help it.
The whole vomit-as-a-food-source thing is a pretty strong argument on its own. Mind you that might cut down on the amount we spend on dog food.
The real problem is, I am a dog person so I like having a dog around. We have a cat, but a cat just can’t be compared to a dog.
For one, a dog will generally come when you call it, while a cat will just stare at you with a look of ‘if you want to pet me, crowbar your butt off the couch and come over here.’
Dogs are also eager to please their master. Cats think they are the master.
The upside of cats is they are a lot less work than a dog. When we go away for the weekend all we have to do is make sure the cat has enough food and water and it’s ‘See ya later.’
If you do that with a dog, all of the food will be eaten in the first 10 minutes and there is only so many times a dog can barf, so eventually its food source will run dry and it will become quite hungry.
But being a dog person, one would think it would be an easy decision. The thing is, not having a dog means a lot less work for me.
“But we’ll help look after it,” is the plea of my children.
“Right, and Elvis is going to come out of hiding to become the next president of the United States and solve global warming by eating every cow on the planet, thus saving earth from their harmful emissions.”
I kind of enjoy going away for the weekend and not have to worry about what we are going to do with Fido.
Camping also brings its own set of challenges when you have a dog because you have to keep them on a leash, off the beach and silent.
All of these items have been debated with my wife, who is on the ‘Yes’ side of the debate.
It got to the point where I had to put my foot down and say, “As the man of the house I decree we are not getting a dog – until the fall anyway, or sooner if you want, if that is OK with you dear.”

Friday, August 7, 2009

Froggy go bye-bye

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
It was one of those times when I got into trouble and it wasn’t even my fault – honest.
How could I have predicted the bizarre series of events that would end in the tragic and accidental murder of a frog?
The tale of the doomed amphibian dates back to my youth. I was 18 years old and in the army militia and we were on a training exercise at a shooting range.
It was pretty much a day like any other: the sun was shining, the birds were chirping and a group of teenage boys were shooting high-powered rifles and loving every minute of it.
Now before any of you get worried, I did not accidentally shoot the frog. No, Kermit’s long-lost cousin was not killed by friendly fire.
There was no weaponry involved in the death of the webbed wonder. In fact, there was not even intent to cause the green guy any harm, but when you get 20 or so teenage boys together something stupid is bound to happen.
We spent the morning running through the woods with our rifles doing various exercises before heading to the rifle range and making our guns go bang over and over again.
Personally, I loved shooting. I always have. I have never killed anything bigger than a bird – starlings to be exact – but I was a crack shot (not a crack pot as some may claim) and I have squeezed a trigger thousands of times in my life.
As a kid growing up in a rural area, I took my pellet gun and a can of pellets every where.
It was a different time back then and no one blinked when they saw a kid walking down the street with a rifle.
I can remember waving to the neighbours with my pellet gun resting on my shoulder as I walked up the road to the nearby hills and they would wave back without so much as a second glance.
Of course everyone knew everyone else so if I did do anything stupid my parents would hear about it before I was done doing it
If a kid was spotted with a gun today, every cop for 150 kilometres would be called in to action.
Anyway, back to the tale of the hard-luck frog whose luck was about to run out.
It happened during a mid-day meal break – civilians call it lunch time, but that would just make too much sense for the army.
A good buddy of mine, whom I had gotten into trouble with in the past and likely deserved it, had found a rather large bullfrog lounging near the shore of a pond we stopped at.
He pounced on the critter and held his prize for all to see. I am not sure why, but for some reason he decided to see what would happen when he flipped the frog straight up into the air.
Now, before PETF (People for the Ethical Treatment of Frogs) gets all in a tizzy, I would just like to say that, um, er, alright, it was not a very nice thing to do to a frog.
Upon launching said amphibian, my buddy noticed Kermit’s arms and legs spread out and he looked like he was doing a jumping jack or something.
Several people found it amusing, so my buddy did it a few more times before one of the officers, a renowned frog hugger, noticed and told him to stop.
My friend did, and he flipped the frog back into the pond from whence it came.
Now this is where fate stepped in.
I was about five metres away and not having much interest in flying frogs, I was not paying too much attention to what was going on. I was however throwing softball-sized rocks into the lake. I was kind of lobbing them over my shoulder without even looking at where they were landing.
So, my buddy threw the frog into the water and this creature could have gone in any one of 360 directions and as he began to swim, I lobbed another rock.
As I released the miniature boulder I watched it arc to the water and that’s when I noticed the frog.
I watched the rock come crashing down on top of frog, making a near perfect impact on his head.
Oops.
What are the odds - a frog in a big pond getting clobbered by a randomly thrown rock? I guess the odds were good enough for it to happen and the world had one less frog to accommodate.
The frog-loving officer witnessed the killing and went absolutely ballistic, claiming we had conspired to whack the frog.
It was kind of hard to defend ourselves because we were trying to look innocent without laughing out loud.
In the end, we convinced the officer it was a tragic mishap and we had no intention of deliberately hurting the critter.
But for the rest if of my time in the unit, that officer kept a close eye on the ‘frog smasher.’