Why when I was a kid...

I think my parents made life too easy for me growing up.
What am I supposed to say to my children about the hardships of my youth?
The only angle I can think of is I had to work a lot when I was younger, but other than that there’s not a lot to whine about.
When I was around 10 years old I asked my dad for some money. Instead of money, he handed me a shovel.
My first thought was, ‘I guess I could sell the shovel for some cash,’ but I knew if I wanted money I would have to work for it.
I took the shovel - which conveniently came with a handy wheelbarrow attachment - out to the section of property where my dad and grandfather were building a nursery.
Sitting in the middle of the empty lot were two dump truck loads of dirt.
My mind was attempting to form a picture: a shovel, a wheelbarrow and a pile of dirt.
“Nope, sorry dad, I’m just not making any connections.”
It’s amazing just how motivating he could be when he explained things, and I began moving those two massive piles of dirt.
Thus began my foray into the working world. I was bringing down a whopping 50 cents an hour.
As I got older, the nursery got busier so I would work after school and on weekends.
Child labour laws, what child labour laws?
Actually, it was good because I could afford bikes, cars and the most important expense – girls.
So that’s about it, that’s all I have to complain to my children about.
I can tell my children, “Why when I was your age I had already mastered the art of moving dirt with a shovel and wheelbarrow.”
I never had to endure any great hardships like being poor or having to eat the family pet because we couldn’t afford meat.
I desperately need more “Why when I was your age” rants, but they are hard to find.
“Why when I was your age we didn’t have any of these fancy remote control units for our TV sets. If we wanted to change the channel we would have to get up and walk all the way over the set, change the channel and then walk all the way back to the couch.
And if you wanted the TV louder….”
It pales compared to my dad’s stories of working 12 hours a day when he was 15 years old.
Like many people of his generation, my dad grew up poor and worked hard to provide for his family. When he goes on a rant about how tough the times were – which I believe is the right of every senior – his stories are of true hardship.
So the TV remote rant is pretty weak. What else can I say?
I may have to resort to making things up.
“Why when I was your age we didn’t even own shoes. We tied a piece of bark to our feet and walked 20 miles to school in the snow in May – up hill both ways.
“We had to get up at 4 a.m. to milk the cats. We had to milk cats because we couldn’t afford cows. Then after school we had to milk the dogs before we went to bed. In fact we didn’t even have a bed. Me and my 18 brothers and sisters all slept in a broom closet. It was so small we had to sleep standing up, on one foot and we liked it.”
I wonder what my children will be telling their children.
“Why when I was your age our computer didn’t have a hyper-gig of RAM. We had to try and get by with 512 megabytes. Do you have any idea how slow that is? Let me tell you kids something, it was pure hell trying to open a website with lots of pictures.
“Why it took a full 22 second. You kid’s don’t know how lucky you have it.”
Somehow it just doesn’t compare to my father’s stories of growing up after the Dirty ‘30s.
I guess the size of the rant depends on the size of the hardship.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

Clogged up complaint filter a matter of time

I wonder if there is a certain age where you feel free to complain about everything.

Is there a magic number you reach where you feel the uncontrollable urge to talk about everything you do not like no matter what it is or who is listening?

I have been commenting on the music “these young kids listen to” for some time so that doesn't count. There really is some terrible music out there, but then again there was some terrible music when I was a young lad as well. But there was also plenty of good music, so I am assuming there is some good music coming out of the current generation – and when I find some, I will let you know.

My dad pretty much hated everything I listened to in my youth – and the more he hated it, the more I liked it.

“I wouldn't give you 10 cents for that racket,” was heard on many occasions as I listened to such classical bands as AC/DC or Van Halen.

I am sure the generation before his complained about the noise these young kids were listening to, so like I said, complaining about music doesn't count because like my father before me, I was hardly in my advanced years when I noticed just how awful the new generation of music is.

But somewhere along the line, my dad, like so many his age, decided to have issue with all sorts of things.

And they are not shy about letting people know of their displeasure. Some are more vocal than others. I knew this one little old lady who was sweet as pie, but complained about pretty much everything all the time.
There was not much she did not dislike, find annoying or irritating and she had no problems letting those around her know of her displeasure.

Many of the older set do not seem to be able to contain their distain for something. So I know eventually I too will will reach a point where I have no inhibitions left when it comes to letting people know what I think of things.

And therein lies the answer to my question: it is not a certain age where you dislike things, but you reach a certain age where you don't care if you tell people about it.

Everyone has filters that keeps them from acting a certain way or saying certain things and apparently the filters on keeping your complaints in your head and not coming out of your mouth gets so clogged with age you have no choice but to verbalize your displease externally.

Near as I can figure, you eventually reach and age where you don't give a fat rats butt what people think of your opinion.

And once I realized that, I took a close look at myself and saw I am well on my way to losing my concern for what other people think.

I have never been overly fashion conscious, and I did try to keep my clothes at least somewhat trendy.

But as I pile on the years, I noticed I have become far less concerned with wearing “cool”clothes or having a certain look.

I wear what I want, when I want.

So it has begun. That particular filter is clogging fast and soon will be of no use.

It is just a matter of time before my 'complaint' filter gets clogged and all the things I dislike about the world spews forth in a verbal waterfall of annoyance and unrestrained comments – just like my father before me and his before him.

It is a right of age to sit around and talk about “these young kids” and this and that and eventually I plan on being right in the middle of it all.

I am not quite there yet, but am confident when I do reach that age I will have no problem telling anyone who will listen what I dislike about, well, everything.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

I am old and wise, my children are neither

So, it happened.
Just like I predicted, I turned 50.
That is half a century of roaming this earth, soaking up knowledge and storing it in the vast intellectual vault that is my brain.
OK, I will admit a lot of that knowledge is absolutely worthless. Did you know cockroaches have teeth in their stomachs to break down their food? Now you do.
Just another useless tidbit of information I have archived over the years. I could barely remember the information in a book I am studying, but I do know all bananas have a very low level of natural radiation.
But I am much wiser now that I was 20 or 30 years ago.
There is a difference between being smarter and being wiser.
Smarter will help you figure out quantum mechanics, wiser will help you realize you are not smart enough to do it.
There have been many instances when I have passed my hard-earned wisdom on to my children – only to have it completely ignored.
Not because it was poor advice based on years of experience, but because teenagers know everything in the world worth knowing.
Junior recently bought a truck. A great, big four-wheel drive that is much more truck than he required.
A co-worker asked me why he needed a truck that big.
ﾒHe didn't 'need' one that big, he 'wanted' one that big.”
And to a teen 'want' and 'need' are very often the same thing.
While the truck is in pretty decent shape, it needed new tires before long
Wisdom told me the rubber would be expensive, to which Junior replied, “I know.”
I told him they would cost more than $1,000.
ﾒI know.”
I told him with the bank loan, insurance and his social life, coming up with that kind of money will be hard.
ﾒI know.”
Well, the time has come for the rubber to hit the road and that rubber is going to cost a bundle.
When I mentioned it is almost time to replace all four tires, he replied “Ya, but they are expensive.”
To which I had the great pleasure of responding with, "I know."
My son is very smart, but he is not very wise.
What teenager is, really?
I wasn't at that age.
It has taken five decades to accumulate such a vast wealth of knowledge and intelligence. Well, knowledge anyway, I have never claimed to have an abundance of intelligence.
But I do feel a lot wiser than I used to, so I am growing in that department.
It is a shame you cannot download all that wisdom to your children, saving them from making he same mistakes you made at that age.
Because it is the first time they have done or experienced something, teens think it is something completely new and us 'old people' wouldn't understand.
What the kiddies don't appreciate is us 'old people' have already walked that path, we have already experienced what they are now just discovering.
I am sure my own father wished he could have injected his wisdom into my teenage brain, just like his father did and his father before him.
But before you can be old and wise, you must be young and stupid.
I admit, I took the stupid part to new heights on occasion (well, new to me anyway), but what teen didn't do stupid things in the name of adventure and excitement?
Wisdom teaches you it is not smart to try and jump a barbedwire fence with your dirtbike. Youth says 'Go for it, dude.'
Wisdom also knows new tires for a big truck are expensive, eating fast food several times a week is not good for you, the world will not stop rotating if you do not get the latest and greatest gadget and all sorts of other things that a wise man knows.
Not all 'old people' are wise, and I have some peers who are still making some very dumb decisions. Fortunately, I am now wise enough to not make the same choices.


Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

Dopey dress debate too dumb to discuss

Anyone who follows the absurdity of the Interweb has no doubt come across one of the most talked about and hotly debated subjects in the world today: the dress.
More specifically, what colour is the dress?
Somewhere in this wacky world a lady posted a picture of a dress and asked people to comment on what colour they thought it was.
The dress went viral – as they say – and garnished attention around the globe. Countless Internet debates raged, 'news' programs weighed in on the subject and for a brief while most of the free world was talking about the colours of this dress.
There are no words in the English language to adequately express how much I do not care what colour this dress is. Which is also kind of how I feel about anything and everything the Kardashian clan does. One is getting married, another is getting a divorce, one is pregnant and one is an alien from the planet Lookatme. Who cares? Someone must because these um, er, 'ladies' (of questionable morals and actions) are everywhere. They are in newspapers, magazines, Internet sites, on talk shows and even real news outlets are covering their exploits.
Call me old fashioned, but to me a 'lady' does not jump from bed to bed, get a divorce after two months of marriage or show their 'assets' every chance they get.
But almost every single day there is some sort of Kardashian news being forced into my mind where it asaults my brain with unwanted information continually degenerates into an ever-lowering level of stupidity.
Did I say who cares yet? Because if I did, I could not possibly say it too many times.
But while it is nearly impossible to not notice these no talent, spoiled, attention whores because of the massive media jugernaut they have become, I would not even have known about the 'intellectual' debate surrounding the stupid dress had it not popped up on my FaceBook feed –  bringing with it a frenzy of opinions and comments.
Some insisted it was one colour, while others vigerously proclaimed it was another.
There were, however, some very wise people who did not give a fat rat's butt what colour the dress was and pointed out there were far more important things to debate than the colour of a dress.
Now those people I liked. Their comments made sense, but for every one casting dispersions on the dress debate, there were many who enthusiasically embraced the great dress discussion.
OK, I know I have said it before, but it bears saying again: who cares?
Not this guy.
There are so many valid things out there worth talking about, but for a brief while the world was obsessed with the colour of some fabric that was to be worn by a someone somewhere on the planet.
ﾒDo you think ground troops will be needed to defeat ISIS in the Middle East?”
ﾒGood question, but what I really want to know is: do you think the dress was white and gold, or beige and brown?”
ﾒChina is one of the biggest polluters in the world. Do you think embargoes on their products should be implemented to force them to clean up their industry to slow the global impact of pollution?”
ﾒHmmmm, another good question, but what people really want to know is: how do you think that dress would look on a Kardashian?”
I wish I was exagerating the stupidity of such conversations, but they happen every day. And not just among people, massive news networks often give air time to stuff like the dress or other viral Internet entities like the Kardashians.
The dastardy dress debate will soon be gone, only to be replaced by another ridiculous topic and I am pretty sure I will not care about that one either.

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

Taking a winged, metal beast to Mexico

The Missus, myself and a couple of the our young ones (who aren't so young anymore) will be heading to Mexico in the near future.

I have never been to Mexico before and am looking forward to a big glass of their refreshing, straight-from-the-tap water.

I am kidding or course, while I may never have set foot on Mexican soil before, I have heard about the fun and excitement that awaits an unsuspecting traveller who downs some of its natural liquid resources. I am hoping to avoid that particular aspect of Mexico as I do not want to spend all my time viewing a foreign land from the inside of a toilet stall.

This will not be your typical Mexican vacation. No all inclusive resorts for this family. Instead of five days pool side, we will be spending three days building a house for a less fortunate Mexican family.

Everyone chips in to cover the cost of the materials needed to build the modest home, so not only are we going there to work for someone else, we are paying to do it.

I have never claimed to be too smart, but of course the reward of helping someone in need will far outweigh the expense and effort.

We are all very much looking forward to it. But it won't all be toiling under the hot Mexican sun, the last two days of our adventure will be spent pool side at a hotel on the ocean.

But before we can do any of this, we have to get there and that means taking flight in a winged, man-made beast.

I do not have a lot of experience flying and the first time I was on a commercial jet was when I was 23. I had been on a short flight in a helicopter before and even 'flew' my buddy's single engine airplane for a brief distance, but my honeymoon trip to California was my first jetliner experience.

My dad is deathly afraid of flying and he passed some of those fears down to me, so when I boarded the metal tube of terror all those years ago, I was a nervous wreck.

It did not help that we were flying at night and bounced our way through a storm. My wife, who was cool as a cucumber the entire time, said I was as white as a sheet as I gripped the armrests of my seat hard enough to leave a permanent impression.

Even after we cleared the storm, the plane was still vibrating, but now it was because of my uncontrollable shaking.

The return flight was much smoother and much more enjoyable and since then I have been on a few flights, including to Russia and back.

That was mostly uneventful flying, except when approaching JFK airport on the return trip where we slammed into a severe thunderstorm.

“Uhhh, this is your captain speaking, we may encounter a little turbulence on approach, so we are asking to keep your seatbelts on and secure all loose items.”

A little turbulence? A little? That was like saying Godzilla was an itty, bitty salamander. I have never experienced anything like that in my life as the plane dropped like a stone several times causing screams of pure panic (no, not from me). Many of my fellow passengers were completely freaking out.

I looked over at a flight attendant and even she looked scared.

I thought that can't be good, but when I realized there was nothing I could do about the situation, I just sat back and enjoyed the ride. Being scared and screaming like a small girl would not change things. Besides, it was not like there was a spider in my shirt or anything.

Any fear of flying I had left in me was gone at that moment and taking flight is no longer a concern.

So I am looking forward to the upcoming Mexican adventure, eager to see new lands and meet new people.

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

So long 2014, can't say I will miss you

Dear Mother Nature: it would appear you were not listening very well.
Myself and many other people requested snow before Christmas so we would not just have to dream about a white one.
There is something wrong with having a green Christmas.
I can recall childhood Christmases full of the white stuff so we could go tobogganing and make snow forts or our own version of Frosty before running into the house to warm up our frozen feet by the fire while sipping a mug of hot chocolate.
We should not be taking the dog for a walk while wearing running shoes and a jacket.
However, two days after the last present was opened, Ma Nature and her cohort, Old Man Winter, got together and plopped a bunch of the white stuff on us – when it is no longer needed.
Snow is a Christmas thing and once Christmas if finished, I personally no longer have a need for the frozen rain that piles up on the driveway, sidewalk and car.
I especially do not need it on the car where it makes seeing out the windshield most challenging and causes me to be late for work (OK, that last part isn't too bad actually.)
The problem is, we are still looking at many more weeks of winter before things start to heat up and the glorious days of spring thaw the land and warms my heart.
But no snow for Christmas day seems a rather fitting way to close 2014, a year fraught with challenges, heartache and some very dark days.
My children lost their beloved grandma – my mother-in-law - last year. While at times we  had a stormy relationship, there was always love, so her passing was a tough one for me, but much tougher for my wife and our children.
At times the little old lady drove me crazy, but I am sure there are times I drove her crazy. Such was our relationship.
Christmas was tainted by the constant feeling something was missing throughout the entire festive season.
The year that is no more also had its fair share of challenging mental health days. Some very dark days were endured in 2014, days of immense difficulty.
The first half of 2014 was, simply put, no fun at all. Living with mental health issues can be a nasty business and there were many days during the early part of the year that were nearly more than one could bear.
But as always, you soldier on, you grind it out as best you can knowing this too shall pass. And for the most part it did. The darkness did return in spurts throughout the year, but compared to the constant barrage of the early 2014, it was a blip in a relatively tranquil sea.
But I shall not miss 2014, nor recall it as a banner year in my life.
It wasn't all bad and 2014 held moments of great joy and victory, but to be honest, I am kind of glad is it over.
I do not put much stock in the changing of the calendar.
Typically the arrival of a new year feels a lot like the old one, but I am hoping for and am optimistic 2015 will be a better year.
And why not? Why let the hard days of 2014 carry on and plague a new year that everyone says is a chance for a fresh start?
There is no reason to think 2015 will bring with it the same bitter fruits of 2014. And if it does, well, then all I, or any of us can do for that matter, is keep on keeping on.
Take the hard days one at a time knowing eventually the dawn will break, the birds will sing and life will get better.
I have no grand wishes or resolutions for 2015, just the hope of better days. And right now, that is good enough for me.

Copyright 2014 Darren Handschuh

Paranoid people are out to get me

Just because you are paranoid does not mean people are not out to get you.

I have heard that saying before and found it kind of amusing.

But there is another version that goes something like this: Just because you are paranoid does not mean people are out to get you.

It just means you are paranoid and perhaps you have an inflated sense of self importance.

My wife and I popped into a little restaurant for lunch a while back when a small group of people came in following a GMO protest.

I am hardly an expert on the whole modified food thing, but I support the anti-GMO movement because man and his scientific brain can not improve on what nature has already perfected.

How can a beaker hugger in a lab make something better than nature perfected millennia ago?

Why do I need a genetically modified tomato when the one God made thousands of years ago works just fine – always has.

I don't need some weenie in a corporate sterile room messing around with my apple so it will not go brown if it sits out too long. That is what apples do, and have done for centuries with no harm to mankind.

I have read the whole thing is driven by massive corporations out to make massive amounts of money. Now that, I believe. And of course the Canadian political machine would never stand up to big business.

Anyway, the Missus and I were having lunch when these people came in and started talking about the protest.

"Ya, I have had an unmarked police car parked in front of my house for almost a month,” said one protester. “I guess someone doesn't like what we are doing.”

Added another, “I know, they have been tapping my phone for weeks now. I guess they wanted to know what our plans were.”

I'm sorry, but I just have a hard time believing the RCMP have nothing better to do with their manpower than to keep personal watch over someone organizing a protest they are legally allowed to hold.

The government, police and secret spy agencies have much bigger fish to fry, but these people were convinced the helicopter flying over the protest – that attracted about 50 people – was taking secret videos of them to add to some massive database.

Really? With terrorists, drug gangs and all sorts of threats to our nation, the government will allocate massive resources to keep watch over a few people peacefully protesting?

Like I said, somehow I doubt it.

I recently dealt with one group that wanted publicity for their cause. They sent the newsroom emails about it, asked we do a story on it, but when I started contacting people on the list, no one wanted to go on the record.

Then why did you contact us in the first place if no one is willing to talk about it?

I spoke with half a dozen people, none of whom would give me any comments and instead passed me along to someone else.

One person said he would not talk to me because he did not know me and sounded very suspicious that I was even a real reporter.

And then these groups wonder why people have a hard time taking them seriously.

But we live in a free country where you can be as paranoid as you want, you can believe government agents are camping out in the hedge in front of your home and that there is a secret conspiracy aimed at your cause.

Now if you will excuse me, I have to put on my tinfoil hat to keep the secret government mind-reading machine from accessing this column before it is published.

Copyright 2014 Darren Handschuh

Casa del Pineapple, here I come

I am a weather wimp.
The colder it is, the more I whine. I do not like being cold and with winter ramping up for another charge, I predict a season of complaining coming on.
The first snowfall of the year is cool (no pun intended.) And even the second one can be kind of nice, but after that it is just a white blanket of annoyance.
Aside from the challenges of driving in it and walking through it, snow must be shoveled – in the cold.
The coldest I have ever been in my life was when I was in the militia. We were Saturday soldiers – or Weekend Warriors as we called ourselves in keeping with the bravado of youth – and once in a while there would be a multi-day training exercise.
Typically, we trained three Saturdays a month (hence the name), but each winter the powers that be would come up with a cold-weather training exercise where we would charge through the frozen tundra playing army.
I had only been in the unit four days when it was time for the annual winter lesson in military confusion. It was three days in the middle of a January cold snap, running around the woods with little idea of what was going on and even less of an idea of what I should be doing.
Myself and another new guy ended up on sentry duty. Because it was minus a million degrees, guards were supposed to be rotated every 30 minutes. The sergeant in charge of us decided his beauty sleep was more important than keeping an eye on the new guys so while he napped in his nice warm sleeping bag, we spent more than two hours laying in the snow with the wind howling up our backsides.
Eventually, we went back to the main camp to see what was going on and were relieved of our posts.
It was at that moment, at the tender age of 18, I truly hated being cold. I don't really remember thinking about it before then, but following that night, I developed a strong dislike for the lower ranges of the thermometer.
When I was 16, I can remember running out to my car in -10C in jeans and a T-shirt under the logic of 'the car will warm up and I won't need a jacket.'
Today, when it is cold, I give some serious thought to selling everything I own, moving the family to the tropics and growing pineapples for a living.
And I don't even like pineapples.
I would initially miss the change of seasons, but would soon get over it as I am basking in the sun in the middle of January enjoying my pineapple empire.
But, as always, I throw on a winter coat, gloves, hat, boots and whatever else I can find to keep warm, run out to the car muttering something about Casa del Pineapple and start my car so it can warm up while I scrape the windshield with my debit card because I can't find the stupid ice scraper – which is probably in my son's car.
Then I sit in the car – still muttering under my breath – while that very breath leaves a thin layer of ice on the inside of the windshield, so now I have to scrape that off. Of course, you can't actually drive  until the car warms up enough to melt the windshield ice. But we all know the car warms up faster when being driven, so as soon as that little spot at the bottom of the windshield clears up enough to see through, we scrunch down and begin our journey.
All the while we hope a member of the law enforcement community does not see our foolish winter folly and that nothing unexpected pops up in the 92 per cent of the windshield we can't see out of.
Eventually, the car warms, the window thaws and we arrive at work – only to repeat the process eight hours later, and then again in the morning, and then again after work, and then again...
Did I mention I do not like cold weather?


Copyright 2014 Darren Handschuh

OK, now you can advertise for Christmas

The candles in the Jack-o-lanterns had barely flickered out when I was assaulted by the first Christmas commercial of the season.
It was the morning of Nov. 1 when I saw the unmistakable images of Christmas being paraded across my TV screen as some faceless corporation tried to entice me into some early Christmas shopping.
There are several reasons why it is just too darn early to run a Christmas commercial. The first and most important is I feel it is disrespectful to our veterans and soldiers.
There is always a big push of Halloween commercials in October, which makes sense, but then it is straight to Christmas commercials. If major corporations ran a commercial between Halloween and Remembrance Day honouring our veterans, that would make me want to shop there, not forcing Christmas down my throat when I still have a Halloween toffee stuck in my teeth.
There is one more very important day before Christmas, let's not forget that.
Besides will waiting until after Nov. 11 to assail me with Yule Tide advertisement really make that big of a difference to the bottom line. Besides, many people will do their Christmas shopping like they do every year – the last few days leading up to Dec. 25.
Maybe we should boycott all companies that have Christmas commercials before Nov. 12. They will likely not notice, but it will make us feel better. However, if they do notice, maybe it will send a message that honouring our soldiers is more important than trying to get us to buy the latest and greatest.
It seems every year there are more commercials barking at me to buy this and to spend money on that.
Like many old guys – hey, I am almost 50 after all – I harken back to the days of old when Christmas was not so commercialized.
Of course, my parents harkened back to their own youth and said the same thing and my children will likely do some harkening of their own and reach a very similar conclusion.
I can remember when the Sears Wish Book arrived. What a great day that was. My sisters and I would fight like mad over who got to look at the book first to leaf through the glossy pages of youthful delight. Page after page of toys would consume hours of our time.
Nowadays, my kids do all their shopping online at any time of the year so they will never enjoy the magical arrival of that amazing book.
Of course, there were Christmas commercials on TV back then, but with only two channels to choose from, our senses were not exactly over loaded with input.
Today, there are a million channels (often with nothing on worth watching) filled with more commercials than I ever thought possible. As corporate greed expands faster than their bank accounts, the urge to suck money out of as many people as possible at this time of year translates into a tsunami of advertising.
One of the big thrills as a kid was going downtown and seeing all the Christmas decorations. Although my parents never did the Santa thing, it was still fun to see him at the mall Ho-Ho-Ho-ing his way through a long line of kids.
Today, the fat man has sponsors at his temporary North Pole in the mall.
It is a sad state of affairs when even Santa Claus sells out to the almighty corporation.
But such is the world we live in – one where ad men are sitting around desperately trying to come up with the next creative way to cash in on the birth of Christ.
I am sure they will come up with something new and inventive. And I am sure people will fall all over themselves in an effort to buy whatever product they have been brainwashed into thinking they must have.
Remember Tickle Me Elmo?

Copyright 2014 Darren Handschuh

These are the Corollas I have loved

It was a big day for my oldest son with a rather unexpected turn of events.
He bought his first car.
It is not a fast car, a flashy car or even a two door, but it is in decent shape and it is all his.
It was also the automotive deal of the century: he paid $30 for it. It came with new winter tires that are worth around $600, so he did very well.
There is nothing quite like the feeling of getting your first set of wheels. The sense of accomplishment and the freedom only having your own ride can provide are wondrous.
I was 16 when I got my first car. It was a 1974 Toyota Corolla with a 1,200 CC engine and a four-speed transmission.
It was slower than a molasses fart, but it got great gas mileage and when you are 16 and always on the verge of being penniless, that is a good thing.
Of course, I wanted a hot rod with a big engine that would go 200 mp/h, but had I possessed such a vehicle there is a very good chance I would not be here today.
I would likely have ended up a statistic, a headline in the local newspaper about another lost youth. I did not appreciate it at the time, but considering how much of an idiot I was behind the wheel, that little red Toyo was the perfect car for me.
I put 48,000 kilometres on that car in 18 months and every one of them was a hard kilometre.
My friends and I were rather - how shall I put this – enthusiastic when it came to driving. I was in two accidents, had enough speeding tickets to wallpaper my room and more close calls than can possibly be remembered.
Did I mention my friends and I were idiots behind the wheel? I hope so, because we were. The amazing part is, no one got seriously hurt. The accidents were minor fender benders and not even a scratch was had by anyone.
I then bought my beloved 1969 Nova that I fixed from a rust bucket to a three-tone blue beauty. I drove that car in a much more responsible manner, but the lure of driving like and idiot was far from banished from my mind.
So, when I found an ugly, orange Corolla station wagon for $500 I jumped on it. The purpose of owning this car was to have something to beat on. I could have cared less if the motor blew up or it sustained damage, which explains why I jumped a set of train tracks and a ditch with it. I reserved my energetic driving mostly for off-road, where they was less chance of seeing members of the local police community and much less of a chance of hitting another car.
I drove that car for several months before selling it to a buddy of mine for the same price as I paid for it. He knew what the car had been through as he was in the passenger seat for many of the off-road adventures.
He had it for only a couple of months before he rolled it and sold it to an auto wrecker for $50.
I have owned several vehicles since that ugly orange Corolla wagon and ironically enough I found myself behind the wheel of another red Corolla for the past few years.
But unlike my first red bomber, this car is driven in accordance with the law – mostly anyway. It is my commuter car and it trudges back and forth to work five days week.
Like my other Corollas, it just runs and runs and runs. It is getting on in mileage and will soon be traded off for another vehicle.
It does not have the memories of my first car, but what can compare to your first.


Copyright 2014 Darren Handschuh

Hooked on the electronic opiate

It was slow, subtle and devious in its seductive luring.
You don't even realize it at first, but every day the need grows more and more. Every day it gets embedded deeper into your brain until you can not possibly live without it.
The thought of not having it for even a day is more than one can stand.
I didn't start out to become an addict – does anyone? I did not mean for it to become so important in my life, but alas I have joined the masses who are hopelessly addicted to their stupid cell phones.
I resisted a long time before getting one of the infernal contraptions, but with the kids getting older it was just an easy and efficient way to communicate and keep in touch.
A quick text, a short phone call no matter where they are and you know where they are.
It took a while, but eventually, I caved and became one of the millions carrying a small transmitter in my pocket. 
My first phone was very simple (like me) and very basic (like me) but after a while it was very old (not like me, I am a young pup of 49.)
My phone was at least five years old. In phone years, that is an ancient piece of equipment.
My kids all had fancy smart phones, while I had the phone technology I had was equal to that of a petrified dinosaur turd.
My wife even got rid of her old phone – that was almost seven years old – and picked up an iPhone.
Now, everyone in the family had one but me, so I decided to take a quantum leap forward in technology and get one of the latest and greatest.
This thing has more gizmos and gadgets to it than the Apollo spaceships.
I still haven't figured out everything it can do, but I am working on it.
At first, I was kind of coy with it. I could take it or leave it – much like my old phone. I only used it when I really needed it and would leave it in my coat pocket the rest of the time, but then the electronic opiate began to get its hooks into my psyche.
It is much more than just a phone: it is a small, portable computer that could access the Internet, texts, emails, games, take pictures, record video, act as a GPS and even make a phone call if you needed to.
Soon, I was like one of those mindless techno-zombies you see staring down at the little gizmo in their hands, oblivious to all that is happening around them.
OK, I may not be quite that bad – not as bad as my kids anyway – but I do spend a lot more time with this phone than the last one.
The old one I would often leave sitting on the counter when I milled about the house, but this new one has put some sort of voodoo spell on me where I have to carry it with me everywhere I go.
And not just for the communication aspect of it, but my phone has all sorts of cool games on it, and that is a significant draw for my attention.
Waiting in a doctors office? Dig out the phone and play a game or two. Who cares how long I have to wait, that will just give me more time to get Scooter to level seven.
Passenger in a vehicle? Get the phone and play a game. You will have plenty of time to talk to the driver when you get where you are going. Besides, you would not want to distract them with all your mindless chatter.
Remember kids, safety first.
It took several years, but I have finally given in to the electronic mistress known as a smart phone.
I believe it was Albert Einstein who said he pities a world where people spend more time interacting with a machine than each other.
Welcome to the 2000s, Al.

Copyright 2014 Darren Handschuh

Remember kids, safety first this Halloween

It's a wonder the human race has made it as long as we have.

What with all the dangerous activities we indulged in during our youth, it is amazing any of us survived.

There are more rules, regulations and safety precautions now than ever before in the history of mankind.

When I was young – which was a long time ago – we only wore helmets when we played hockey. No one had even thought of wearing a helmet when riding a bike, but now they are mandatory.

I am not saying it is a bad thing as helmets do save people from injury, but it is just another sign of how times have changed.

Take Halloween for example. The third coolest day of the year is coming up (Christmas and my birthday are the coolest days) and the list of how to have a safe Halloween is growing ever longer.

Again, I do understand the need for safety, but the list gets more detailed every year and with each item added a little chunk of the carefree fun is taken out.

When I was a kid we wore those smelly, plastic masks that got all sweaty when you breathed to the point you had condensation running down your chin like you were a St. Bernard.

Of course, the eye holes were just big enough to see straight ahead, but not to the sides, top or bottom, perfect for running around the neighbourhood in the dark.

But every store sold them and a lot of kids wore them.

Back in the day, I do not recall officials of any type passing on safety tips about anything other than to let your parents check your goodies before you eat anything in case some lunatic stuck a razor blade in an apple.

I assume that must have happened at some point, or the warning would not have been issued and we were all deathly afraid of apples and homemade treats that could be laced with something nasty.

But we never heard a peep about the masks we wore, our costumes or most of the stuff they worry about these days.

The other day I was emailed a very extensive list of safety procedures everyone should follow this All Hollow's Eve.

People are advised to wear reflective vests and armbands over their costumes.

“Oh look, another vampire construction worker.”

I know, safety first, but some of these rules must have come from desk of Capt. Obvious.

Children should wear a costume that fits properly and be flame resistant.

Really? I was going to send my daughter out in my dark-blue, oil-soaked coveralls, work boots and gloves - with a mask that blocks her vision of course.

Children should not run back and forth across the street.

"But, officer I am going as a jaywalker this Halloween, and you wouldn't want me to break character.”

Never get in a car with a stranger is more of a year-round safety advisory I thought, but it was on the list of what not to do this Halloween.

Parents should be aware of the route their children are taking.

Ya, good luck with that.

Parents should accompany children as they trick or treat.

When I was a little guy, my parental charges would escort our Halloween adventure, but when I neared the double digit years they accompanied me to the front door, said if the police bring home I will be in more trouble with them than the cops and told me to be careful.

These are just a few of the 30 or so Halloween safety tips that I received.

I agree safety is paramount, but let's not stifle our children so much they can not have any fun, or eventually they will all be going dressed as the bubble wrap vampire, the bubble wrap Frankenstein, the bubble wrap...you get the idea.

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

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

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 

Shhhhhh, I'm old and I'm trying to sleep

There are many things I dislike about getting older.

I don't have nearly as much hair as I used to. Well, not on my head anyway. For some reason it is growing out of my shoulders – that's a great place for a mop of hair. Many other parts of my body that used to be hair free are now sprouting a full-blown lawn of follicles as well.

My eyebrows are so long a family of pheasents could nest in them and I would likely never notice. My belly is larger and my patience thinner.

I could go on and on, but one of things that annoys me the most about stacking on the years is how tired I get.

There was a time not too long ago — actually it was a long time ago, but please let me live in the illusion – when sleep was something to be done when I had nothing better to do.

Long gone are the days when I could indulge in social activities well into the night and pop out of bed early the next morning, ready to take on the world.

The year I turned 18, I averaged about four hours sleep a night.

Thank goodness for high school where I could at least get some rest.

I worked part time, hung out with my friends part time and slept some of the time. Life was good.

Fast forward 30 or so years and a friend of mine hit the Big 5-0. A social gathering in his honour was organized and we all joined together to bug him about being the first of us to reach the half-century mark.

That gathering lasted until 1 a.m. In my teen years and well into my 20s, 1 a.m. meant it was time to start thinking about the after party.

At my friend's birthday, 1 a.m. meant I was well past my bedtime.

The next day, I was downright tuckered out from a night of vigorous activity so late into the darkness.

In my youth, I can remember thinking sleep was a waste of time. Why would I want to sleep when there is so much fun to be had. Life is too short to sleep it a way.

Nowadays, my attitude toward sleep has taken a quantum shift. Now, I like sleep, I enjoy it, I look forward to it. It has become one of my favourite things to do.

Late night TV is now 10 p.m. and anything beyond 11 p.m. is just not worth watching.

There have been days when I could not wait to go to sleep.

The party used to beckon me like a siren calling from the deep to join her until the sun came up. It was a call I answered more often than not.

Now my bed calls me not like a young, beautiful siren, but as a comforting old friend that is always there for me, always ready to envelop me in the soft folds of blankets and pillow.

And if I do ignore the call of my old friend for too long, there is a price to pay. Unlike the days of my youth where I could pop out of bed on four hours sleep and be ready to tackle the day four hours sleep now means I am ready to tackle the couch for a nap the first chance I get.

But like I have said before, the alternative to getting older sucks so I will endure hairy shoulders and the need to inject coffee directly into my bloodstream just to get through the day for as long as I can.

copyright 2014, Darren Handschuh