Youthful stupidity was often disguised as bravado

Firefighters in Small Town, U.S.A. had to be called to get a five-year-old boy out of a tree.
The youngster had climbed more than 10 metres up the tree to check out a squirrel nest.
That is absolutely classic. Only the curiosity of a young boy could prompt him to climb almost three stories up a tree.
Once up there, however, the lad got nervous about climbing down and had to be 'rescued' by the fire department.
No one was angry at the boy and the fire chief commented the youngster will have a great story to tell his dad when he got home.
What young boy has not climbed a tree, mountain or whatever on a quest of curiosity?
I loved exploring when I was younger and I loved climbing trees.
When I was around 10, I can remember climbing so far up a pine tree the branches were starting to break under my weight because they were so thin, and I did not weigh very much.
Of course, if I tried it now the lower branches would groan and break before I even got my feet off the ground.
But on that day, I was at least 15 meters from the ground. However, it was not curiosity that got me to climb to the heavens, it was bravado.
I had to prove I was braver than everybody else by climbing higher up the tree than those scardey cats could.
And I did.
I was too young to realize I was risking my life for the sake of bragging rights, but I did know I had those bragging rights when I went higher than anyone else.
And when you are 10, bragging rights are a very important thing and I never once thought of falling to the jagged rocks below.
All that mattered was besting my buddies. Just like all that mattered for the squirrel-smitten lad was checking out where the adorable little rodent lived.
But as I grew older my brain kicked into gear and I came to realized some of the stuff I was doing in the name of fun and bravado was pretty darn stupid.
Problem is, that really didn't happen until I was in my mid-20s.
All through the teen years my friends and I did some very stupid stuff and, by the grace of God, we all not only survived, but did so with only minor injuries.
Sure I have a few scars – badges of honour as we used to call them – but there was never a life-threatening injury.
There were injuries of course, and I am paying for those brazen younger days in my older days, but at the time it was all about the adventure and even if an 'old person' had told me I was going to creak and crackle and pop when I am older because of the stupid stuff I was doing when I was younger, I wouldn't have listened.
From climbing to the top of trees to tearing down a hill as fast as possible on peddle bikes to racing each other on dirtbikes, the younger years were a blur of thrills and several spills.
Nowadays, when young men and women do crazy stuff they film it and put it on the Internet. And had there been an Internet when I was younger, I am pretty sure we would have done the same thing.
I don't recall why it was so important to do crazy stuff, why we always had to one up each other and why we would put ourselves in mortal danger just for the thrill of doing so.
But I guess that's the answer: the thrill.
Young men are full of bravado, and empty of common sense. I am no longer a young man, bravado is but a memory (like my hair) and I am blessed with an abundance of common sense.
I also have an abundance of aches and pains to remind me I am no longer the young whippersnapper I once was.

Copyright 2015 Darren Handschuh

Too many names on the wall of memories

I said goodbye to my friend last week.
Like other memorial services I have been to (there have been far too many), it was somber with the occasional outburst of laughter as good times are recalled, only to be replaced by the reality of the moment.
His wife and children were there; keeping a stoic front, but of course on the inside the pain of his loss was marching through their hearts.
It is sad when anyone you care about dies. But it is even harder when that person is young. My friend was only 51 years old.
Far too young to be taken from this earth. Far too valuable a person to be swept away by the merciless scourge of cancer.
My great-grandmother had a saying, “Old people die when they are old, but young people can die any time.”
She was in advanced stages of dementia when I knew her and would, on occasion, talk to the closet, but during her lucid moments she expressed the wisdom only nine decades of living can provide.
I was a kid back then (and to tell you the truth she used to scare the hell out of me), so her words made little sense at the time, but as I aged I came to understand and appreciate what she meant.
Young people are not supposed to die. A friend of mine from 'back in the day' was not supposed to die of a brain tumour at 28 years old.
Wesley was not supposed to die in an ice fishing accident when we were in Grade 11. That is simply too darn young no matter how you look at it.
I had known him since Grade 1 and he was the first friend I had ever lost. Too many names are etched on the solemn wall of memories in my mind.
Friends, relatives, school mates have all had their names put on that dark, cold reminder they are no longer here.
Death is so final, so complete. When someone moves away, you can still stay in touch with them. You can call them, email them, look them up on FaceBook, or even send them an old-fashioned letter.
They are physically gone, but they are still there, still within reach.
Death steals that from you. Death does not allow any further contact. In its greed, Death wants tto take everything for itself, there is no sharing with the living, no hope of seeing them on this earth again. That greed takes away all future memories you may have had with a loved one.
All that is left are memories of the past. Those recordings of the heart and mind that allows you to relive those relationships. You can lose yourself in those wonderful memories. If only for a little while, you can be reunited with a loved one.
But even then, deep down you know eventually, you will have to return to reality and again feel the sting of loss.
There is nothing special about my mourning. Millions of people mourn the loss of a loved one every second of every day.
Accidents, disease, war and the most horrific of all – suicide – claim loved ones constantly.
Some of us are on this earth longer than others. Even if they do not seem worthy of a long life, death will come for them only when the time is right – no sooner, no later.
But before death, there is life and that is where the magic lies. Life is where you create those memories for, and with your loved ones.
Life is where you can share a laugh with a long-time friend; where you can go camping with your family in the rain, but still have fun; life is the simple things like going for a hike, or helping your son work on his car.
Memories can be created every day. They don't all have to be grand adventures like a tropical vacation or trip to the Alps. Simple things can create memories that last a lifetime.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

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

Dropping the needle on some good memories

I did something the other day I had not done in many years: I dropped the needle.

That's right, I dropped a needle onto a record player for the first time since I can't remember when.

The trek back in time to the nostalgic era of my youth happened on Christmas Day.

For several months, my wife had been talking about getting a turntable so when I found one on sale, I grabbed it, wrapped it and couldn't wait for her to open it.

She was surprised and excited to have a record player of her very own – again.

In the far corner of a little-used storage room in the basement sat a box covered in dust.

Inside was a stack of vinyl history. Records from the '80s from when we were young and records were the No. 1 way of listening to tunes, sat waiting to be rediscovered like King Tuts tomb of rock and roll.

The funny thing is, with ever-advancing technology providing music online, on phones and pretty much anywhere else you could think of, records are making a comeback.

I was talked to a university student recently who said all of her friends were into vinyl.

“There is just something about the sound,” she said. “It is much richer, fuller, not as perfect as a CD or digital.”

And she is right. When we played the first record in many years, it did have a distinct sound that was really captivating, and not just because that is the sound I grew up with.

I am sure that is part of it, but the sound of a small needle dragging its way along a grooved piece of plastic does have a unique vibe to it.

Of course, the records we had were 30-plus years old and some were damaged, causing the needle to jump, but that is just all part of the experience.

When a CD skips it is enough to cause me to have a seizure as it repeats the same fraction of a second over and over and over...

A record can be similar, bit not as harsh as a CD.

Digital songs don't skip at all, unless there is a glitch which causes them to stop and start and stop and start and cause that seizure I was talking about.

When a record skipped, you would oh so gently move the needle past the damaged part so you would not miss too much of the song.

Even without playing them, those old 33s brought back many memories.

I pulled out the first record I ever bought – Loverboy - and of course my second copy of Meatloaf's Bat out of Hell (the first copy got stepped on and it was, and is, a must-have for my music collection.)

Supertramp, Styx, AC/DC of course and a whole pile of classic tunage is now available for my on-demand listening pleasure.

But as I flipped through the stack of classics, I stopped cold at a beat up, scratched, liquid-damaged copy of Frank Zappa's Joe's Garage.

Instantly I was thinking of my good friend who was claimed by the scourge of cancer more than three years ago.

We used to listen to that album all the time and even seeing the album cover brought pangs of missing my good buddy, my brother since I was four years old.

My jubilant trip down memory had hit a speed bump. Memories of a lifelong friendship raced through my mind. The trouble we got into and the fun we had while doing it. Discussions about cars, music, girls and the deep thoughts of life all raced through my conciousness right up to the day of his passing, stopping the memories in their tracks.

I sat, silent and still thinking about his loss, before pushing those thoughts aside and rejoicing in the friendship I had, rather than dwell on the cruelty of it being taken away far too soon.

I know eventually, I will drop the needle of Joe's Garage and be reunited with my buddy through the magical time travel that only music can offer.

Copyright 2014 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

You are not alone at Christmas

“It's the most wonderful time of the year...”
Or so the song goes anyways, but for many people, Christmas is not all that wonderful.
In fact, it can be the worst time of the year.
For people struggling with mental illness, Christmas can magnify the suffering and the challenges they face on a daily basis.
Depression and other mental difficulties can often be isolating. Being trapped in the darkness of an unhealthy mind is one of the loneliest places in the world.
I told a friend once it is like I was screaming in a crowded elevator and no one hears me.
I can remember driving around in my car and feeling so overwhelmed by loneliness I honestly did not know how I was going to make it through another Christmas.
It is such a desolate place to be: trapped in your own mind that is telling you no one is there for you, no one is in your corner.
Of course, these are lies fed by my illness. I had people who cared about me, but I could not see it through the choking smog of pain ignited by the fires of mental illness.
Christmas and all the joy and togetherness it represents was like pouring fuel on that fire. Those feelings of solitude, isolation and, indeed, desperation, grew to such a fury, the fires of hades paled in comparison.
Over the years, I have come a long way in my personal struggle. I have  sought out  counselling, read a lot of books, taken courses and worked hard to understand why I was feeling the way I was. Dealing with mental health issues, no matter the type, is a self-determined journey: you are the only one who can take the first step on the road to wellness. You are the only one who can make you climb that mountain.
For the most part, those feelings of loneliness are now gone, but they are far from forgotten.
Even as I write this, I remember how alone I felt, how empty I thought my life was and my heart breaks for anyone suffering through such darkness  at any time of year, let alone Christmas.
You are not alone. You are not the only one struggling with those feelings.
I know how hard it is, I know the anguish it can cause, the desolation of the spirit it can bring upon someone.
But there are places to go to not be alone. Many churches hold candlelight Christmas eve services. You do not have to be a person of faith to attend. It is just a peaceful, welcoming place to be where you are not alone, where you interact with people.
A good friend of mine found solace in an online group and it is now a tradition for him to spend Christmas chatting and Skyping with people all over North America.
The Canadian Mental Health Association also has numerous resources available to help, kelowna.cmha.bc.ca.
And if you feel it is more than you can take, I implore you, please call the crisis line where you will find people who care about your well being.
Remember, you are not alone, others walk with you. Help is available, all you have to do it accept it.

How parenting has made me ready for the circus

Who would have thought being a parent would give me the skills needed to be in the circus.

There is a whole bunch of circus-related duties I could perform, all from the skills I picked up as I helped the Missus raise three adorable children.

They really are good kids. They are not perfect little angels (like their father was at that age), but they have good hearts, mostly stay out of trouble and have high morals and standards.

But like all young adults, the teen years brought moments of great challenge for their parental charges and it was during those tumultuous years I honed my many circus skills.

I could be a clown. Ask pretty much any teen what they think of their parents and they will agree mom and dad are qualified to wear a red nose, funny wig and outlandish make up.

All teens seem to go through a phase where mom and dad are an embarrassment, old fashioned and don't know anything. It is amazing the 'old people' can walk and talk at the same time they are so incompetent.

Of course, I never thought that of my parents. Just like I never copped an attitude, thought I knew everything or considered them an embarrassment. It was always, 'Yes, mother' and 'Yes, father,' 'What ever you say father.'

No, really, that is how I was as a teen, honest.

Anyway, circus clown is more of a title bestowed upon parents by their children than one they have to work for.

But there are other circus jobs parenting is a perfect training ground for.

Lion tamer. Who has not walked into the lions cage – a.k.a. a teenagers' room to 'discuss' something only to come face-to-face with a ferocious beast.

Sticking your head in a lion's mouth is kiddie play compared to dealing with a hostile teen.

But the good thing about a teen, especially a teen girl, is if you wait a few minutes, their mood will change and the danger will pass. However, as all parents know all you have to do is wait another minute and a new mood will emerge, and so on and so on.

Such it the life of a parent.

When the kids are younger, parents develop skills as a juggler. My wife pretty much mastered the skill of holding one child and chasing another while carrying an armload of groceries.

If a professional juggler really wants to impress me – do all that fancy stuff they do while looking after an ankle biter or two, now that raises the difficulty level to extreme.

Another circus skill is tightrope walking. I am currently in the learning process of this one as I deal with a very emotional teenage daughter.

When it comes to dealing with a young lass who is being assaulted by a hurricane of hormones as she makes the transition from child to woman, walking a tightrope is a must-have skill.

I am quickly learning you have to achieve just the right balance between discipline and freedom.

If the discipline is too heavy handed, you aggravate the situation and said daughter throws up a wall of teenaged anger and defiance and things escalate from there (see lions den.)

Too much freedom and they could get into trouble, but not enough freedom and they feel repressed, spawning that anger and defiance I was talking about.

So it is a fine line, a high-wire balancing act of majestic proportions to find just the right amount of parenting and the right amount of letting them make their own mistakes and figure things out themselves without getting into too much trouble.

So being a parent has developed many skills that are applicable to becoming a carnival performer, and believe me, more than once I have thought about running away and joining the circus.

Copyright 2014 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

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