Welcome to 50, try and enjoy the ride

I guess it is all a matter of perspective.
I am turning 50 in a few days and that is a big birthday.
It is one of those occasions where you look back at your life – sometimes with a smile, sometimes with a grimace.
You review the things you have done, the decisions you have made and how they got you to where you are today.
At 50, dead are the unattained dreams of your youth. When you are young, you could afford to dream big dreams, time was on your side and you believed, eventually, you would achieve those lofty goals.
But then something happens along the way: it's called life.
Circumstance changes, people leave your life while others come in to it. Careers take unexpected turns, priorities shift – even change direction all together – and one day you wake up and you are half a century old and you wonder where all that time went.
Your mind drifts back to 20, 30 years ago when the world was your oyster and to all the wonderful adventures you imagined were ahead of you.
Travelling the world, seeing exotic people and strange lands, but you need money to do that, and to make a decent living you need an education so those plans are put on hold for a while.
Then you meet an amazing woman and your priorities change.
Now you think of marriage, and children and the desires of an immature mind are replaced by the goals of a man who has a family to help take care of.
Marrying my wife was one of the smartest thing I have ever done, and I would do it again in a heartbeat. Having children was one of the greatest things to ever happen to me and the joy my family has brought me is immeasurable.
But still, in the back of my mind is the longing for those long-gone dreams of my younger years. I suppose it is a '50 thing,' a bit of a mid-life kind of deal, where you yearn for your youth and the promises it held.
I have a tendency to focus on the negative, so it is easy to become melancholy about those fanciful dreams that, in all reality, probably weren't that realistic to begin with.
Now, you look ahead to what is coming: a body that is more flab than fab; fuzzy eyesight; arthritis; a decrease in strength and energy, aches and pains – it is a long list.
But there are good things coming  as well. Walking my daughter down the aisle, having grandkids where I get to have all the fun of little children without the parental responsibility and dare I say retirement – future fun can be a pretty long list as well.
Like I said, it is all a matter of perspective and a very good friend of mine is helping me gain that perspective, even though I wish he wasn't.
My friend has cancer and the prognosis is not good.
He is a year older than I am and arthritis and failing eyesight are the least of his concerns.
His family is rallying around him, as are his friends and despite his circumstance he still smiles when he sees you, has a funny comment at the ready and can see the bright side of life.
My whining about forgotten dreams and goals suddenly seem pathetic things to mourn.
The real joy of life is family, friends and faith in a god who loves you.
I do not know what the future holds for my friend, I do not know how much time he has left. But do any of us really?
So as the big day looms, I will do my best to push aside those long gone dreams of my youth, and instead celebrate the many blessings I have been given and the joy my life holds.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

Happy birthday and drink up - in moderation of course

So, Junior turned 19 the other day.

That is a milestone for any teen in this province as it means you are old enough to legally purchase and consume adult recreational beverages.

A lot of people go out and get hammered on their 19th birthday.

I can honestly say, I was not one of them.

I wasn't a real big party guy in my teens. I was too busy wasting all my money on stuff like cars and motorcycles to divert it to booze and other party supplies.

I am not saying I was a little angel or anything, I was just not a hardcore partier (well, not in my teens anyway.) I do recall the first time I did get all boozed up. OK, I sort of remember it. I was 17 and it seemed like everyone I knew was drinking, so I figured I would give it a try.

A guy I know bootlegged a mickey of vodka for me and assorted bevvies for my friends and we all hunkered down to imbibe on the alcoholic drinks.

Being new to the drinking game, I drank a lot faster than I should have. One little sip led to one big gulp which led to consuming the little bottle of 40 proof hooch way too fast.

At first, it was all kinds of fun, running around, laughing, being stupid, but after a while the fun stops and your stomach begins to rebel at the assault you have made upon it with your choice of liquid.

Basically, before the night was over I was barfing harder than a super model after dinner.

It was not pleasant. I have some vague recollections of holding a bucket and talking to my girlfriend about...something.

The next thing I knew it was the morning, I was on the coach and herd of elephants had run over my head.

I had never been hung over before and was finding the experience most unpleasant.

Wow, did that suck. My stomach was sore from all the regurgitating I did the night before, my tongue had swelled up like a sponge in a pool and my head hurt so bad the sound of dust falling to the ground nearly put me in a coma.

A couple of my friends were not fairing much better, but the experienced boozers were doing OK and having a great laugh at my expense.

I swore I never wanted to feel that way again as long as I lived. And I didn't, for a couple of years anyway.

I did not get liquored up on my 19th birthday, but was closer to 20 before I entered the party scene full speed, and even then it only lasted a couple of years.

I had a few hang overs – which I hated – and swore I would never drink like that again. Which I didn't, until the next time I did. (I never claimed to be overly bright and if I did, no one would believe me anyway.)

Such is the stupidity of youth I guess, so when Junior hit the milestone I was not sure what to expect. I knew it would not be the first time he tasted alcohol (he's a good kid, but not exactly a little angel either), but I did not know how much celebrating he would do on the big day.

He got together with a few friends, they had a few drinks and that was about it. No one got overly boozed up, no one threw up and no one had to be helped up.

What the hell is wrong with these kids?

I'm kidding of course. I am quite pleased at how responsible they were. They indulged, but not overly so.

Now we will have to see what the next couple of years brings, but Junior is an adult and the choices he makes are his own.

And if he does over indulge, I hope he gets hangover strong enough to knock out a horse.

Darren Handschuh can be reached at therudemonkey@gmail.com. For more of his ramblings, check out his blog at www.therudemonkey.blogspot.ca.

Copyright 2015 Darren Handschuh

Snow, snow go away. No really, I mean it - go away

I hate snow.
OK, hate may be a bit strong of a word. How about detest, despise, loathe – feel free to substitute any one of those and you get the general idea of my thoughts on the frozen particles that float down from the heavens.
As a child, I loved the snow – what kid doesn't? Making snow-people (that is the PC name for Frosty's kin) was always a popular pastime. My friends and I would spend who knows how long making an elaborate snow-individual complete with carrot nose etc.
We would stand back and admire our work for about three minutes before smashing it to pieces. I don't know why we did this, but we did, every time.
We were also big on creating snow forts. We had visions of a castle-like structure complete with towers, firing ports for throwing snowballs through and walls so thick they could withstand all but the most aggressive onslaught. What we ended up with was half a dozen huge balls of snow all pushed together in a semi-circle. Not quite a castle, but close enough for our young minds.
Some of us would defend the castle while others attacked. We would then switch sides and the battle would rage until we couldn't feel our toes and a mug of hot chocolate beckoned.
We would also spend hours tobogganing at a nearby hill.
And as I got older, I had the privilege of helping dad shovel the white stuff, but not even that could diminish my enjoyment of the cold, powdered moisture.
When I got my driver's license, snow introduced a whole new world of fun. Sliding cars around an empty parking lot, pulling Rockfords – where you slam on the emergency brake and snap the back end of the car around – was all part of the new found form of winter entertainment.
Gone were the snow-people and snow forts, replaced by motorized mayhem.
Toward the end of the teen years, and for many years following, I never really gave snow much of a thought. It came, it melted, it was gone.
Year after year, the cycle would repeat itself. It is called the changing of the seasons and being in Canada, it happens every year – guaranteed.
But as I age, I find myself disliking the white stuff that was once such a source of enjoyment.
For some reason I have grown almost obsessed with snow removal. As soon as it snows, I must clear the driveway, sidewalk, stairs and any other path I deem needs to be snow free.
That is why the recent massive dump of snow nearly killed me. Not the shovelling part – although that was rather taxing on my aging muscles – but the fact I could not keep the areas snow free that my brain decided needed to be snow free.
Because the snow was falling faster than the hair off my head, no matter how many times I shovelled, the paths were always covered.
So maybe it is a huge dump of snow that I hate.
Perhaps a little snow here, a little there is not so bad.
Hmm, the more I think about it the more I realize, yup, I hate snow. I hate how it freezes your windshield wipers, how it sticks to your boots and gets tracked into the house where it melts into a puddle and you step in it with your sock feet, how it sneaks its way over the top of your hiking boots, how it makes the roads sloppy and slushy, how it – well it could be a long list.
I am definitely a spring, summer and fall kind of guy.
However, having said that, there is one redeeming quality winter has – there are no bugs, specifically there are no spiders.
So I guess winter is not all that bad, except for the cold, and the snow and the...

Copyright 2015 Darren Handschuh

OK 50, here I come ready or not

They are dropping like flies.

At first, it was just one or two, but gradually the wave built until it was a tsunami of birthday celebrations with just about everyone I know being clobbered by the big 5-0.

My high school classmates and many people I work with and go to church with are succumbing to the half-century mark with alarming frequency.

It seems like I can not open FaceBook anymore without seeing someone being consumed by the five-decade milestone.

But the more candles on your cake the better off you are.

I can remember when I turned 20 – sort of. It was a party and a good time. It was a little more concerning when I turned 30 because for some reason, that was a big number for me.

I really appreciated my youth and 30 was definitely not a kid anymore.

Even at 29 you could say, 'Hey I'm still in my 20s,' but at the stroke midnight on the day I was born the calendar decreed I was no longer a 20-something. I was now a 30-something and that felt different for some reason.

By the time I was 31 I had two little kids to worry about and a couple years later the third installment of the Handschuh clan made an appearance so I was far too busy – and tired – to really worry about 40 that was coming at me like I was a deer in the middle of the road, blinded by the oncoming high beams of middle age.

Forty did not come with dread, but was pushed to the side as the chaos of life with three kids took precedent over being concerned with becoming an old guy,

Fast forward nine years and nine months and I am once again staring an age milestone in the face.

This time, however, the kids are older, more independent giving me more time to play the part of a deer that is about to get splatted by the oncoming freight train that is Father Time.

In three months, I will no longer even be a 40 something, but will cross that great divide of age and be a 50 something.

OK, so what does a 50 something act like? I still like motorcycles, like I did when I was 20. I am still doing martial arts, like I did when I was 30. I am the oldest person in my martial arts club, by the way and everyone knows the single most important rule the club has is 'Don't hurt the old guy.'

If my fellow - and much, much younger – students remember just one thing, I hope that is it. For the majority of the people in the club I am old enough to be their parent, and for the little kids even a grandparent and I...Whoa, hold it, I just crossed a line. I am not willing to refer to myself as a grandpa just yet.

Grandpas, and grandmas, are old. I mean my dad was 52 when he became a grandpa and I...uh oh.

Hmmm, I know my own grandpa always seemed old, but he would have been in his 50s when his grandchildren started showing up.

I am not saying there is anything wrong with being a grandparent and I admit it will be kind of cool to be able to play and have fun with little kids until I get tired and then just hand them over to their parents, but I am not ready to go there just yet.

How can I be a rebel, a renegade, a free spirit if I am a grandpa. It just does not seem right.

It is just another aspect of reaching the half century mark I am trying to wrap my brain around.

Before you can be old and wise, you have to be young and stupid. I did very well in the young and stupid department, now I just need some of that wisdom to kick in.

Copyright 2014 Darren Handschuh

Bad cholesterol sucks the joy out of eating

I miss the good old days.

Not just the days when nothing hurt when I stood up, or the days when I had hair on my head and not my back, but the good old days when I did not have to watch every single thing I ate.

With the big 5-0 looming in the not-so-distant future, one has to start thinking about what one eats or one will end up looking more like two than one.

There are also pesky things like a risk of having a heart attack, stroke or some other nasty bit of body breakdown that come from not living a more healthy lifestyle. And that healthy lifestyle means giving up pretty much any and all food that I used to enjoy.

As a young land, cholesterol was an old person problem. Well, it is now my problem so that must mean...it is a middle-age person problem too.

There is good cholesterol and bad cholesterol, and it would seem I have an abundance of bad cholesterol, as does several of my kin.

I did not exactly win the genetic jackpot with a family history that includes just about every ailment modern science knows about.

I am not talking about stuff you can catch – like malaria or anything – but medical issues that are part of your genes and you have very little choice of getting them or not.

Among my inheritance from my forefathers, foremothers and forecousins was a wonky cholesterol situation.

The doctor informed me of my cholesterol woes and said I would have to change many of my eating habits. So naturally, I got a new doctor.

Actually, I took note of what he was suggesting and walked out of his office with a stack of papers on what I can eat, should eat, must eat and must never again even think of eating ever again.

How come bacon tastes so good, but is so bad for you? I will add that to the long list of things I plan on asking God as soon as he gets email.

Ironically, my current dietary issues had nothing to do with my past penchant for all things tasty.

“A double bacon burger, fries and enough gravy to float an actual boat please,” was a request I made more than once at a restaurant.

So, I have had to adjust my diet and I am proud to say my cholesterol is around where it should be. My enjoyment of eating is way down, but at least so is my cholesterol.

Eventually it will get easier, won't it

First it was, “I can't wait until they are out of  diapers, then I will not have to  change poopy butts.”
Then it was, “I can't wait until they can walk. It will be a lot easier to take them somewhere because we won't have to carry them all the time.”
"I can't wait until they are in school because then they will be away for a few hours a day to get some stuff done around here.”
"I can't wait until they are more independent.”
Looking back at the never-ending list of “I can't wait” moments, I see how futile it all was.
I can remember thinking when they reach the next milestone, raising kids would be so much easier.
What I didn't realize at the time was raising a family is cycle of challenge, victory, challenge, victory etc.
When they started walking I did not have to carry them everywhere - I had to chase them everywhere as they were always on the move, something always distracted them and something always took them down a path away from our intended destination.
Then I kind of missed them not being able to walk. At least they would stay where you put them and you always knew exactly where they were.
Getting out of diapers was a good thing, but for the first little while accidents did happen (with the kids, not me) and instead of packing diapers, we were always hauling around extra clothing, so it was a quasi-victory at best.
Heading off to school did provide some much-needed and much-appreciated free time, but it also brought with it the challenges of homework, parent advisory council meetings and, of course, drama.
Oh my, the drama was rather unexpected. As girls hit the teen years, their mind is assaulted by a typhoon of raging hormones and they go from happy to angry to sad to furious to happy in less time than it took you to read this line.
Instead of drama, I remember my boys being angry for about two years. They did not really need a reason to be angry, other than they were in their early teens and that just seemed to be what boys their age did.
They are older now and pretty much back to normal, so I am hoping (and praying daily) my daughter will grow out of her hormonal hurricane.
When she is older things will be better – wait a minute, I have been saying that for years.
I realized as kids age they do outgrow certain problems and difficulties, but they are replaced by other ones.
Then those are replaced by others and so on until I am curled up in a ball in the closet hoping no one finds my hiding spot.
As teens they are a lot more independent, which I quickly learned was good and bad. They can better take care of themselves, but they are a little too wise in their own eyes and sometimes that is not a good thing.
Also with the teen years comes those hormonal changes I was mentioning.
But looking back, I see how the rewards of raising children far outweigh the challenges. Life will always bring difficulties to your front door, but the key is it look through the hard times and embrace the victories, no matter how small they may seem.
Over time, the difficult days are lost in memory and only the victories are worthy of recalling.
My children are now all entering another phase of life, whether it be going to university or striking out on their own, so I am prepared for not only a few more challenges, but some more victories as well.
I guess I will have to just sit back and see what happens. Of course, I will keep the hiding spot in the closet at the ready.

Copyright 2014 Darren Handschuh

Don't wanna be the centre of attention

I am not really a centre-of-attention kind of guy.
I am just not comfortable being in the forefront where everyone is looking at me. Doesn't really matter the size of the crowd either – I just don't like being everyone's focal point.
I never have. I was a very shy child and preferred to blend into the background as much as possible.
Getting up in front of the class to give a report was terrifying and I would often hope for a bout of malaria, or scurvy or something the day of the event so I would not have to perform in front of my peers.
But of course any sickness was reserved for the weekends and I was fit as a fiddle when I had to give my report – a very nervous fiddle that is.
I gave my report with not just butterflies, but California condors fluttering in my stomach.
I managed to get through the presentations somehow, but it was not pretty.
Um, er and ah were the most spoken phrases and I stumbled my way through my notes.
When doing drills in hockey, I always made sure I was in the middle of the group so I did not stand out. When coaches were selecting players and when I saw them concentrating on me I wanted to melt into the ice.
And that is why I find birthdays so nerve racking.
Birthdays are supposed to be days of merriment and fun. When I was a kid they were, but as I grew older I began to dread them and not just because I was getting older.
I noticed how incredibly uncomfortable I am as the centre of attention when my then co-workers had a little birthday do for me.
I knew it was coming because that is what they did at this office. At 11 a.m. on someone's birthday, work would be put on hold for a half hour while everyone gathered in the boardroom to celebrate your arrival on the planet.
Deep down I was hoping they would miss my birthday, but when I saw the boss walking down the hall with a birthday cake I knew there was no escape.
I was fine as everyone gathered around the table, chatting away and sipping coffee.
It was when they all looked at me and started to sing Happy Birthday I wanted to bolt from the room like a gazelle being chased by a herd of cheetahs.
I fidgeted through the birthday song while trying not to look too obvious I was uncomfortable. I failed miserably. But eventually the song ended and we all ate cake. I no longer work at that establishment and the place I work at now has a very strict 'no employee perks of any sort' policy so I never have to worry about the birthday trauma again.
The weird part is, I have done some public speaking as an adult and was quite at ease with a microphone and a few notes.
OK, at ease might be a bit of a stretch. More like terrified into numb submission to the point where I could have been addressing the nation and it would not have bothered me.
Actually, it went pretty well the half a dozen times I have done it. I managed to throw in bits of humour mixed with the message I was trying to deliver.
However, I still prefer to hide behind a keyboard where no one can see me and I can simply rewrite something I do not like, because unlike writing, what has been said, cannot be unsaid.

Copyright 2014 Darren Handschuh

Making my man brain shop like a girl

So the little woman turns...another year older this week (like I was going to tell you her age).
And as the husband, it is my job to purchase items that let her know I am thinking of her on the date of her birth.
And that means I have to go shopping – for girl stuff.
Shopping for tools, motorcycle gear and other cool stuff is not a problem, but making my man brain think like a girl can be a challenge at times.
Every time I wander around the ladies' section of a shopping establishment, I always feel out of place, like everyone is watching me.
But why would they care there is a male in the female shopping area? It's not like I am trying the clothes on, or prancing around in a bra or anything.
The song “One of these things is not like the others, one of these things doesn't belong” plays endlessly in my mind as I stumble through my gift-purchasing duties.
Occasionally, I will see another lost soul, a.k.a. a husband shopping for his wife, and we look at each other with a knowing glance and nod slightly as if to say, “Present for the little woman hey pal, don't worry you can do it.”
When my teenage daughter's birthday rolls around, the shopping is easy. Step 1: purchase card. Step 2: sign card. Step 3: put money in card. Step 4: give daughter card with money in it. Simple.
The same gift-giving path is taken with my sons as with my daughter.
For a teen, cash is the perfect gift.
But that just does not seem right when it comes to the Missus, although a close family member did get her a gift card to Canadian Tire one year, which she appreciated, but did have to wonder at a little bit.
I prefer the gifts I give my beloved to be more personal, to say she means enough to me to make an effort to go beyond simply stuffing a few bills into a dollar store card.
But it is the same story every year – several times a year actually if you count Christmas and our anniversary – I spend time looking for a unique item, something different, something she would not expect and then when my man brain fails to come up with anything new and refreshing, I run to the department store and buy a bunch of clothes.
It is kind of a cop-out, but that old standard has never let me down. I will get her a few other items as well – CDs, DVDs etc. - but clothes typically make up the bulk of the gift.
Fortunately she likes getting new clothes, and I can say with some level of pride, I am pretty darn good at picking out items of the fashion variety. The key is to avoid the clothes designed for teens and clothes designed for grannies.
The little woman would not want a sweater that would look good on my mom, nor would she care for clothes that she can trade with our daughter.
So there is a fine line I must walk, which I usually do – or least she says I do, but I do see her wearing the clothes I bought her in public, so they could not have been that bad.
And wrapping presents is easier than ever since I discovered gift bags. What a wonderful idea: take the present, put it in a bag, put some of that decorative paper stuff on top so she can't see in before opening it and 'ta-daa' the wrapping is done.
And for the record, I would just like to state I have never forgotten my wife's birthday or our anniversary.
I wish I could claim this was because I am such an awesome husband and my wife is always first and foremost in my thoughts, but a lot of it is simply a matter of survival. Besides, I just don't think it would be that comfortable to sleep in the garage.

Copyright 2014, Darren Handschuh

I could resist no longer - I bought an iPhone

What can I say, I finally caved to the seductive lure of the siren known as technology and was sucked into the high-tech age of 2014: I got an iPhone.
I spent years resisting getting a cell phone and when I did, it was a basic, simple, old-guy phone that did two things: sent texts and let me speak to people.
What more could you want? It did have a basic camera, but no video capability and none of that fancy pants stuff my kid's phones had.
But it did what I wanted it to do, even if it was ancient in cell phone years. It was, after all, five years old.
"Oh, you still have a phone like that,” said a very high-tech co-worker when he saw my dinosaur of a phone sitting on my desk.
I just looked up at him, jumped out of my chair and punched him in the throat.
"Let's see you talk on your fancy pants phone with a crushed larynx, pal.”
I am kidding of course. Violence never solves anything – unless someone brings my daughter home past curfew, then it is the only way to solve things.
When my daughter does start dating (somewhere around the age of 25) I will greet her suitor while sharpening my knife collection and talking to a 'friend' on the phone.
"Ya, I miss everyone in prison too. I have been staying out of trouble, but then again, my daughter hasn't dated anyone since that last kid. Yes, he is eating solid food again – I think.”
Anyway, back to the wonders of cell phones.
My daughter lost her old phone so we got her an iPhone, which she is thrilled with. However, she managed to find her old phone, so I was going to trade in my dino-phone and use her android phone – which was much more advanced.
However, the android phone was experiencing some technical challenges. The stupid thing wouldn't turn on, so I took it to the place we have our accounts only to be told getting it working again might not be covered because there was a crack – just slightly smaller than a mouse hair – in the corner of the screen.
"That could void the warranty, so you may have to pay for the repairs yourself,” the little phone expert guy told me.
So I jumped forward and punched him in the throat.
Once again, I am kidding.
Because I had my dino-phone for so long, I actually had a bit of a credit built up from my monthly payments and found out I could get an iPhone for a mere $4 a month more than I was paying for the dino-phone.
I decided to take the leap forward in technology and now I have a phone that can do everything but wash my car.
As the phone expert guy was explaining everything my new phone could do, I was amazed at what the little thing was capable of.
It has talk and text – pretty much all I needed in the first place – but it also has a decent camera, video capability, weather information, access to the Internet, emails and if I punch in the right combination of letters and numbers, I am pretty sure I can launch a thermal nuclear strike on mainland North Korea.
But the more he talked, the less I understood.
He rambled on about sliding this over here to do that, and sliding that over here to do this.
By the time he was done, I was missing the old tin cans with a string between them I used to play with as a child.
I am sure once I get familiarized with the new contraption, I will be using it like a pro.
But until that day arrives (long in the future) I will pester my kids about how to use the stupid thing, because to them, cellphones are as simple as two tin cans and a string.

Copyright 2014 Darren Handschuh

Married adventures with drunk cowboys

It was one of the strangest nights of my life.
A storm was tearing through the land. Thunder and lightning of biblical proportions were wreaking havoc on the usually calm summer's night.
But it was not the torrential rain, the crack of thunder or even the deadly bolts of electricity that concerned me, it was being trapped in a cowboy bar without electricity and being surrounded by 300 drunk cowpokes that had me worried.
My wife and I were visiting a friend in Central Alberta many years ago and were spending a night on the town for a time of drinks, merriment and more drinks.
The first night club we went to was a kind of techno-pop establishment where after the first 15 minutes every song began to sound the same.
We weren't the oldest people in the room, but we certainly were not the youngest and the 'kids' bouncing around the dance floor really seemed to enjoy the um, er, music I guess you could call it.
With the thumping of the bass and what I assume was someone singing filling the room, I was reminded why I rarely went to night clubs anymore.
After some merriment and a few drinks our friend wanted a change of venue so we headed to an establishment that played much better music.
A few more drinks and a little more merriment later we once again sought a venue change and that is how we ended up in the cowboy bar.
Now don't get me wrong, I have nothing against cowboys and I even wanted to be one for a good portion of my childhood. I have known a few cowpeople (to use a politically correct, but really stupid term) and they were all pretty cool. They were hard workers (and hard partiers,) but not the crowd I tended to gravitate to, mainly because of the music.
I am just not a country music fan. If cowboys listened to rock and roll, well then call me a cowboy. But I am pretty sure it is in the cowboy constitution that 90 per cent of the music they listen to must be country, which means I am not part of the club.
But on this night, I found myself in their midst. Shortly after our arrival, the storm knocked out the power, so now I was in a dark room with 300 drunk cowpeople.
This was fine, until, in the back of the room, someone started singing Delta Dawn – that old country standby – and the entire bar joined it.
We were not in our comfort zone to say the least.
My wife and I often revisit that night and we always get a chuckle out of the whole experience.
It is just one of many we have shared over the past 26 years of holy matrimony.
I have officially been married for more than half of my life – and all to the same women.
The little woman and I share a similar sense of humour, which is one of the things that brought us together in the first place, and we both found being in a darkened bar listening to a few hundred people warble their way through the Tanya Tucker standard very amusing.
After more than a quarter century of marriage we have many strange little tales to tell and, God willing, we will have many more years and many more odd little adventures to experience.
Has every year with my beloved been nothing but sunshine and lollipops? Um, er, next question please.
There have been times of great joy and times of great challenge. Moments when I wonder why I ever married her, but mostly I wonder how I could ever get by without her.
We are both human, we are both imperfect, but we are both devoted to each other and that means we can survive anything, including a drunken rendition of Delta Dawn.

Copywrite 2014 Darren Handschuh

Gentlemen: listen to the smart brain, not the dumb brain

I can only speak about a man brain, but it seems the testosterone-infused members of the human race have two sides to their brain – good and evil, or smart and dumb – however you want to look at it.
We should always listen to that part of your brain that is filled with common sense and reason. We should, but often men do not.
Listening to the enticing lure of the dark side is more common among younger members of the male species.
For some reason, stupid ideas just don't sound stupid when you are a young buck full of energy and lacking in wisdom. In fact, a lot of the time they sound pretty cool.
“What could possibly go wrong? We tie the fireworks to that little tree over there, light the fuse and enjoy the show,” said an equally young and dumb buddy of mine many years ago.
“What if something catches fire?” was my reply as I looked at the tinder-dry mountainside we were perched on.
“Don't worry about it. It's a rocket and it will shoot eight bright balls of fire high into the sky. No problem,” was the reply.
“D'uh, OK, let's do it,” was my reply.
We lit the fuse and the rocket exploded where it sat, sending eight bright balls of fire in eight different directions.
I would have said 'I told you so,' but we were too busy stomping out eight little fires.
Stupid idea? Absolutely. We did get all the little fires out and vowed to never again play with fireworks (until the the next time we had some that is.
So yes, I have done my share of nutty (a.k.a. stupid) things and I have the scars to prove it, but with middle age strangling the bravado side of my brain, I now know better.
But even as you get older, the dumb part of you brain still chimes in with all sorts of 'brilliant' ideas.
The secret is learning to ignore the dummy inside and go with the mature, intelligent man you really are.
“Honey, do these jeans make my butt look big?”
Loaded question, I know, but a wise man will easily come up with the 'right' answer no matter what the answer really should be.
“Of course not Dear, you look fantastic,” said the smart man who ignored the evil voice in his brain and went on to live a life of happiness and marital bliss.
“No, the jeans don't make your butt look big, your butt makes your butt look big. It looks like two blue Smart cars trying to pass each other,” said the dumb man who now has to learn to sleep pretty much anywhere he can including on the couch, in the garage or even under the stairs.
The key is to listen to the smart man brain and not the dumb man brain.
The older you get, the better you should become at differentiating between the two.
After all, it is a matter of survival (and marital bliss.)

Copywrite 2014 Darren Handschuh 

A 'grand' revelation

I had a brief look into the future the other day.
No, I was not magically tele-ported to see my future self as the ruler of a tropical island complete with doting servants and pet tigers with diamond-incrusted collars. 
This future echo was probably a lot closer to reality.
My niece, her hubby and their children came for a visit a couple weeks ago.
Like many people who live in a beautiful, sunny area surrounded by lakes, a weekend often means visitors and my home became a temporary station for a clan that included a trio of ankle biters.
The oldest two of the this blended family are around six years old, with the youngest barely past one – meaning they don't visit, they invade.
With six extra people descending upon my humble home (my mother-in-law made No. 6, yay) things got a little chaotic.
My great nieces and nephew are all well behaved and were a joy to be around. They had a great time playing with my kid's old toys, jumping on the trampoline, blowing bubbles and in general exploring a new part of the world.
After watching them for a while, I realized where the term perpetual motion came from. They never stopped running, jumping, playing, talking or moving the entire time they were at my house.
And for some reason, little boys need to yell in just about every situation.
Playing a game on the trampoline – yelling. Blowing bubbles and then chasing them around the backyard – yelling. Wrestling – yelling. Running – yelling.
Often they were not even words, but making noise just because that is what boys at that age do.
I had to work one of the days they were visiting and of course it was busy and frantic and all I wanted to do at the end of the day was kick back on the deck with an adult recreational beverage and let the stress melt away.
Or, I could blow bubbles, play the chase-me game and watch the kids do amazing tricks on the trampoline – like jump up an down.
All of which I did and it was a pleasure doing so.
The beauty of this situation was, once I was tired of playing I simply turned the children back over to their parents and zeroed in on that chair. That is not something you can do when it is your own children.
And if the visiting one year old had a special surprise in her diaper, it's not my problem. When they are emitting an odour a skunk would find offensive, time to hand them back to mom or dad.
It was at that moment it hit me: that is what my parents did with my kids.
That is what grandparenting is about (hence the look into the future.) You went through the challenges of raising your own kids and perhaps were not able to fully appreciate the magic a child can bring into a home.
You are too busy taking care of them, disciplining them, cleaning up after them and sometimes you forget to enjoy them.
But as a grandparent, that is your main job. 
I saw a poster once that said 'Grandchildren are your reward for not strangling your kids when they were teenagers.'
While I found it somewhat humorous when I first read it, it was not until the visit with my niece I understood what it meant.
It is the grandparent's job to spoil their grandchildren – which explains why my dad fed my son Reeces Peanut Butter Cups for breakfast one day.
"Dad, did you just give Junior chocolate for breakfast?”

"Um, er, ah, maybe. But it has peanut butter in it, and milk products so essentially it was very close to peanut butter and toast and a glass of milk. Nothing wrong with that for breakfast.”
Good one, Pops.
While I am likely still looking at a few years before I become a grandparent, I now have a much better understanding of the role: annoy your children, by spoiling your grandchildren. Sounds like fun.

copyright 2014, Darren Handschuh 

My little girl is not so little anymore and I don't like it

I guess there is a double standard.
When my boys were younger, I had no problem with them growing up. Older sons meant more help for me around the yard (well, that was the theory anyway.)
It meant they could take on more responsibility, be more independent and with each passing day they were one more step closer to striking out on their own and forging their personal path through the world.
It is inevitable that they become masters of their own domain. It is repeated constantly throughout not only the human kingdom, but the animal world as well.
In certain animal clans, sons are eventually considered a threat to the papa and he 'encourages' them to leave the pack. Some animals take it to an extreme level.
If a papa bear finds another male in their territory, woe be to the invader. He will go after the other male with all the ferocity he can muster, no matter the age of the other bear and even if it is his own offspring. Momma bear will step in and defend baby bear. And papa bear better watch out because hell hath no fury like an angry mom.
We humans tend to be far less aggressive in encouraging our young ones to venture out on their own, but when they come home and find all their stuff in boxes, that is usually a pretty good sign it is time to go.
I have not done that (yet anyway) because I want to support my kids through post secondary schooling and other challenges, but rest assured there will come a day when I will go papa bear on them if they decide living in the parental den is easier than creating their own.
I may be human, but humans are mammals and mammals are animals and animals eventually kick their offspring out into the unsuspecting world.
So I had no problem with my sons soaring through their teen years. I had no problem with my boys becoming men. I looked forward to it on many occasions.
So what does this have to do with a double standard? I also have a daughter and for some reason there is a whole different outlook for 'daddy's little girl.'
I don't want her to grow up and become a teen and act like she is all grown up. I certainly don't want her to look like she is all grown up.
Some of what I am feeling may be because she is the baby of the family and it is hard to watch your youngest grow up, but a lot of it is she is my little girl.
It struck me like a freight train the other morning when she was heading off to school that my little girl is not so little anymore.
What was that stuff on her face? Make-up! What! She is not old enough for make up. She is barely in high school.
And what do you mean you and your friend want to meet a couple boys at Timmies? Boys are icky, remember? Boys are gross.
At one time, her room had pictures of fairy tale princesses on the walls, then it was teen heart throbs (such as what's-his-name, you know, that Beaver kid.)
Then one day she took down all the posters and asked if we had any spray paint. Um, OK, feel free to express yourself, it's your room. She invited me to look at her 'new' room and it was the bedroom of a full-blown teenager.
Posters had been replaced by groovy spray-painted drawings, there was not a dolly in sight and her music has gone from Veggie Tales to the latest pop songs.
I know my little girl is not a little girl anymore, but that does not mean I have to like it.
Now if you will excuse me, I have to put on my martial arts uniform and sharpen my collection of knives – one of those icky boys is stopping by.

copyright 2014, Darren Handschuh