Spiders are not a good wedding gift

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.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

A horror story parents would understand

I feel obligated to provide a warning to all who read these words. This column contains images that are not recommended for those with a weak constitution. It is a tale of unspeakable horror and scenes so vile only the bravest of souls should dare read Tales from the Crib.
The day started out like most other days, except this day my son, Junior, had the flu. Now a flu is not fun for anyone, but for a two-year-old boy it brings with it a whole set of problems adults don’t deal with, such as a child’s ability – or should I say willingness - to throw up no matter where they are.
Hearing Junior was awake I entered his room and stopped cold when I saw what my young son had accomplished. I also instantly realized giving grape juice to a two year old with the flu is not the smartest move.
Standing in his crib with a big smile on his face was my son. The front of his sleeper was purple, the crib was purple the floor and even the wall was purple, but what really impressed me was he got some on the ceiling.
That is regurgitation of Herculean proportions. I had never seen a kid hose down a room with such efficiency.
His older brother had done his fair share of spewing, but I was in awe of the master.
I felt a brief twinge of fatherly pride, however it was quickly eclipsed by a sense of ‘Oh the humanity.’
Junior was not upset in the least by the situation, but I was left wondering how I could get my hands on a haz-mat suit. My wife poked her head in the door and then took off faster than a gazelle on steroids mumbling something about how she gave birth, so the least I could do was clean up the mess.
Now, just how long does the ‘I gave birth’ excuse work? When I’m 90 and the dog makes a mess on the floor, will she mumble through her false teeth something about giving birth before wacking over the head with her cane and telling me to clean it up?
But, back to the task at hand. The first thing I had to do was get Junior out of the crib, which would normally be an easy task, but the blonde, blue eyed Creature from the Purple Lagoon standing before me made it a scary proposition.
At first, I tried using ‘The Force’ to lift him out and float him to the bathtub, but it didn’t work.
It was obvious I was going to have to pick the little guy up and carry him to the bathroom. It is amazing how fast one can run while carrying a small child by two fingers at arms length.
Jr., meanwhile, was having a great time and giggled all the way as I tore down the hallway with the determination of a weight watchers class which had just spotted a pizza.
I placed him in the tub, got him out of his sleeper and cranked up the water. I took the sleeper to the wash machine and set it on puree before heading back upstairs to deal with the crib, wall and ceiling.
Surveying the room I wondered how so much goop could come out of such a tiny person. As I scrubbed I realized I had not even had breakfast yet and I began to think about how good some eggs would be right about now.
I am convinced only a parent could think about what to have for breakfast while cleaning up 37 gallons of kid barf.
Eventually I got the room cleaned up – there is still a stain on the carpet as a sort of memorial to the event – and got Junior dressed and downstairs, thus ending the vomit incident.
If you’ll recall this adventure in parenthood started because Junior had the flu and with it came diarrhea, or as we call it ‘the scoots’ because you are always scooting to the bathroom.
That was also the day I learned a diaper can only hold so much recycled food matter before it escapes the elastic confines of the undergarment by any means possible.
But the story of the overflowing diaper and the family dog who gave its best effort to help clean up the floor will have to be told a different day.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

Depression is a self-determined journey

So how can you make someone recognize they have depression?
This question has been posed many times, but unfortunately the answer is not the one those people want to hear.
The simple answer is: you can't (at the very least it is extremely difficult to do.)
It sucks, I know.
I wish there was a some formula to help people see the lies that are controlling their lives, but no such formula exists. Not that I know of anyway.
I have presented this question to psychiatrists, doctors, counsellors and have even heard it posed to one of the top radio counsellors on the planet.
They all had the same answer: the person with depression is the only one who can do anything about it - they must acknowledge they have a problem and need help.
The best comparison I have heard is to that of an alcoholic: until they admit they need help, they will not seek help.
Sorry if this is not very encouraging, but it has been my experience that this is the sad truth about mental health. I am hardly an expert on such matters, but I have learned a bit from the school of hard knocks, having struggled with mental health issues for many years.
I saw depression manifest itself in a close family relation when I was a teen and decided if I had depression, I was going to admit it and do everything I could to fight it. I saw how damaging it could be, how it can take a good person and make them angry, or withdrawn or so sad they can not get out of bed.
It would be more than a decade from that moment before the depression that runs in my family would arrive at my doorstep. A series of sad and difficult events brought it crashing into my mind like a freight train plowing through a pile of marshmallows.
The instant it took hold, I knew life had changed. I could physically feel it. I also knew I could not fight this thing on my own, so I went to the doctor who put me on medication.
It took a few tries to find the right medication, but through trial and error I found one that works.
So if you, or someone you know, has tried one type of medication and it did not work, do not stop looking for one that will. It is far too important to dismiss after only a single try.
But good for you if you are even willing to try medication to help.
The first and most important step to dealing with mental health is admitting you have a problem – just like an alcoholic. I know several people who have mental health issues – I can see it in their eyes, hear it in their voice and witness its impact in their daily lives – but they refuse to get help.
One friend told me he could not have depression because he has a sense of humour. Another said if her husband would do this or that different, or if she had a different job, or a nicer house, newer car everything would be fine.
I know people who have divorced seeking relief from the mental anguish they find themselves in, only to have that anguish follow them because wherever you go, so does your brain.
For those living with someone suffering from mental health issues, life can be very hard. But there is help for partners through various agencies and online resources (cmhakelowna.org, or cra.com). My wife has taken several courses to help her deal with my own depression.
As for the person with depression, change is up to them because only they can take that most important step of admitting they need help. And once they do, life will change for the better.

Copyright 2014 Darren Handschuh

Grandma, you are simply the best

It was one of those moments you remember forever.

An instant in time seared into your brain with details as vivid and sharp as they day it happened – and I was only four.

Me, my sisters and a couple of cousins were visiting Grandma one hot summer day and we were playing a game where you could not touch the ground.

It was, of course, molten lava (like all suburban driveways are) so we would jump from the stairs to the hood of Grandma’s 1969 Chevrolet Impala.

There were no concerns about damaging the car. Those old Chevies were so tough you could drive a tank over them and, more than likely, you would damage the tank.

The game was simple: whoever touches the ground is turned into a flaming puddle of goo by the roiling ocean of lava that, although deadly, could not hurt a Chev Impala.

We were playing in the carport because it was pouring rain outside. There was also plenty of thunder and flashes of lightning, but we had bigger concerns. We had to survive the deepest reaches of the lava-filled jungle.

One of us would jump onto the stairs and the rest would follow, we would then jump back onto the car as part of our daring adventure.

In grandma’s backyard was a clothesline. One end was attached the house, the other to a large steel pole at the far end of the yard.

When lightening struck that pole it was the loudest bang I have ever heard in my life. (I still get a little freaked out by loud bangs.)

Grandma was looking out the back window and saw the 1.21-gigawatts of electricity hit the pole.

She watched as a surge of electricity spread out across the lawn in an electric blue colour. She saw it head along the clotheline – straight for the carport.

We heard the bang and saw a flash, but were unharmed because we were all on the car and the rubber tires insulated us from the free-range voltage.

We then screamed at the top of our lungs and made a mad dash for the safety of the house, and more important, the safety of Grandma who we knew was bigger and stronger than whatever it was that caused that bang.

We reached the door the same time grandma did and five scared, crying and very freaked out kids wrapped ourselves around her like we were made of Velcro.

With the right proportion of cookies and hugs, Grandma calmed us all down and we decided to spend the rest of the day in the safety of Grandma’s presence.

My children recently lost some of that safety when their Grandma, my wife’s mother, passed away.

It is a big loss for our family as she was a much-cherished member of our clan.

I poked fun at her on occasion in this very column, but she knew how much I loved her and how important she was to us all.

She was a woman of amazing faith and strong character.

She loved to laugh and had a wonderful sense of humour. I would like to say she lived a life of luxury and privilege, but it was a life of trial and hardship.

From losing her mom when she was nine and being raised in foster care, to struggling with a variety of health challenges, life was not always easy for Kathleen Rose.

She faced more than her share of hardships, but through it all she never lost faith in her God, she never put her own needs before others and she had a heart of gold like few people I have ever met.

It was a sad day when she passed. We walked around in a daze, not wanting to believe what reality was telling us.

Tears came easy those first couple of days, slowly replaced by the constant gnawing of knowing she gone.

I know the pain will subside over time, but I also know there will always be an empty space in our lives.

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 

The best sporting event I have ever been to

It was without question, the greatest sporting spectacle I have ever witnessed in my life.
It was not a bunch of whiney, rich professional athletes catching a ball or hitting a little black disc around a frozen ice surface.
No, these were true athletes, competing for the love of the game and taking sportsmanship to a level I have never seen before.
It happened many years ago, before my wife and I were even married. We were walking though a park that had numerous sports fields when we happened across a soccer game.
When some people think of soccer, or football as it known everywhere else in the world and should be called that here, they sometimes think of hooligans, or team rivalries that go back decades, or over-paid athletes who roll around on the ground for 20 minutes if the opposing player even looks at them wrong.
But this contest boiled the game down to how it should be played. In fact, it was a good example of how life should be lived.
You see, both teams were made up of people with Down syndrome.
And these men and women were rocking that extra chromosome like it was nobody's business.
My wife and I couldn't help but sit on a grassy knoll and watch the most enjoyable sporting event I have ever seen.
When someone scored a goal, both sides cheered. If someone got hurt, the game stopped and both sides ran over to the injured party to make sure they were OK.
Once the injured player was up and about, it was pats on the back from everyone – no matter the colour of the jersey they wore.
One player in particular stands out – Brenda.
I do not know Brenda, I have never met Brenda and I have never see her since, but I will remember her forever.
Brenda was a forward and when she got the ball her coach would yell, “Kick the ball fast, Brenda.”
With steely determination and concentration etched in her features, she looked at the ball, she lined it up, she carefully took a few steps towards it and kicked it as hard as she could.
This was not a penalty kick where time is a luxury. This all happened over the course of several seconds of regular play.
Both teams stopped and waited for Brenda to kick the ball, and not one player moved until her foot met the ball.
Only then did the game resume.
This happened several times during the game and each time the coach would yell, “Kick the ball fast, Brenda.”
Brenda never did kick the ball fast, and no one ever tried to take the ball from her.
I don't know who won the game, and to be honest I really don't think anyone cared.
Everyone was on the field to enjoy each other's company and participate in a game where the main goal really was to have fun.
I have been fortunate enough to know a couple people with Down syndrome and they are the coolest people I have ever met.
Some brand them as handicapped, or worse.
But I often think we 'normal' people are the ones who are handicapped.
We go through life loaded down with prejudice, pride, greed, arrogance, hate, fear, anxiety...it's a long list.
We 'normal' people can be intolerably cruel to each. On occasion, we even kill each other over a silly game.
My wife and I stayed until the match was over and I have never felt so good about  a sporting contest as I did that one.
You should try it sometimes, it is good for the soul.

copyright 2014, Darren Handschuh