The maim game is painful fun

I have a love-hate relationship with the tech world.

I am impressed with what can be done with electro gadgets these days, but hate when something goes wrong.

Actually, I often hate technology when everything goes right.

Nothing is more frustrating that doing everything right on a computer and it still won't do what it is supposed to.

Some would say that means I am not doing everything right and them I say...well, they are probably right, but I am doing everything I know how to do and it is still not working.

But I muddle along as best I can with my old-man brain.

However, one of the cooler areas of technology I have embraced is Facebook.

There are many aspects of Facebook I must admit I do not care for – pick a political meme, any political meme - but there are some really great things about it as well.

The coolest thing about Facebook is the ability to keep in touch with people all over the world. It also allows you to re-connect with people you may not have seen in a long time.

Such was the case when I connected with a buddy from high school. We took different paths after graduation and I have not seen him since, but through the magic of FB, we are once again able to 'hang out' and this time it is not painful in the least.

Let me explain. You see, when we were in elementary school this friend and I played a little game where we would try to maim each other.

It was nothing too serious, just good old fashioned youthful energy channeled in such a way as to cause each other occasional bruise, scrape or second-degree concussion.

I don't know how the game started, but there are two distinct incidents I remember well.

The first was in the gymnasium where the class was doing a variety of sporting type activities. I happened to have a basketball which, as most people know, is fairly hard.

Seeing my buddy standing 10 feet away, I looked over and said 'Hey, Jeff' in a very non-threatening manner.

He turned around and I threw the ball with every ounce of strength I had, hitting him square in the face.

I was quite pleased with my shot, and when he regained consciousness I was even happier.

He was out for about 10 seconds and I thought for sure I was going to get it. But instead he was very calm about the whole thing.

That was my first warning sign because I knew he was planning his revenge and for the next couple of days I was a nervous wreck.

Cue gym class again and we are playing softball under the clear blue sky.

I am on first base running to second when suddenly I see stars.

The next thing I remember is looking up at that clear blue sky while the gym teacher freaks out because one of her students has been doing the ball diamond slumber for almost a minute.

I have to admit, it was one hell of a good throw by my buddy.

A batter hit the ball to the infield and my friend grabbed it and fired a masterful shot, beaning me in the bean as I ran full tilt toward second base.

He claimed he was trying to throw to second, but we all know the truth and the smug look on his face showed how proud he was of his accuracy.

I had a headache for three days and am pretty sure that was the first time I received a concussion.

But all is fair in love, war and the maim game.

We carried on this way until we reached high school where such antics faded away as we matured and all that stuff.

Basically we got tired of always being on edge and always wondering where the next assault was coming from.

Being a young boy is not for cowards.

At least through Facebook we can't knock each other out...yet.

Copyright 2017, Darren Handschuh

It's OK to let your kids get a hurt once in a while

The other day I heard someone say it is a shame children today do not get to experience getting hit in the face by a big red ball during a game of dodgeball.

And they are right.

I loved dodgeball when I was in school; mainly because I was really good at it.

I could twist and turn and was rarely taken out of the game. I did get hit in the face a couple times, but that was just part of the fun.

We did all sorts of sports, games and goofing around that ended in minor injuries. It was called being a kid and it was something we all accepted as simply part of life.

In elementary school, we used to play tackle football at lunch without any gear. We could have played flag football I guess, but it was just not the same.

Following a rambunctious 30-minute game, just about everyone had some sort of minor injury from grass burns on our elbows to bruises and even the occasional black eye – which was worn as a badge of honour. But we were all ready to go again the next day.

Nowadays, teachers and parents are so worried about Junior getting a boo-boo they have banned pretty much all contact sports. One school even banned tag because a child might fall and hurt themselves while running from the person who was 'it.'

Really? Tag is nothing but running and fitness and building cardio. And then they wonder why Junior is so, um, er, weight enhanced at such a young age.

I played hours of tag when I was a kid and I don't ever recall someone getting hurt.

If someone fell down, they dusted themselves off and got back up – simple as that. The worst part of falling down was it usually meant whoever was chasing you, caught you and now you were it.

No need to call the paramedics for that.

Another school banned soccer because – you guessed it – someone might get hurt. Here is another sport that involves nothing but running around a field. There is no tackling, body checking or any real physical contact, but someone was worried some how a child could receive a minor injury while having fun so they had better cancel having fun.

It's all part of the 'helicopter parenting' that has taken hold of North America in its overly cautious grip.

I admit, I too have been a hovering parent at times, but not so much when it came to letting my boys be boys.

Every parent wants to protect their child, but there is a time when you simply have to step back and let them get a bruise or two.

It's part of life. I did it, my dad did it, his dad did it and so on and we all survived.

I am not saying to let them jump off a small cliff holding onto a bed sheet as a parachute because that really does not work - trust me on this one - but a little rough housing is just fine.

Oh, and also maybe don't let them try to jump from one branch of a pine tree to another because if they miss that really hurts too.

But my sons would often come home with bruises from skateboarding or crashing their peddle bikes – something I had done more times than my mom could recall – and they are now healthy adults with a few scars to tell stories about with their friends.

In the quest to keep children safe from harm they are also keeping them from having any fun, experiencing life (which involves bumps and bruises) and doing what kids do.

I got way more hurt playing organized sports than rough housing, so let them take a big red ball to the face, let them fall out of a tree, let them have fun (but keep the bandaids handy).

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

Welcome back to school...sigh

I recently read a story about how to prepare your child for going back to school. It was full of all sorts of interesting and helpful suggestions, tips and advice for helping your child make the transition from the care-free days of summer to the regimented routine of a public school system.

When I was a child, the only thing we did to prepare for going back to school was go shopping for books, paper, pencils, erasers, (wine for mom and dad to celebrate our return to school) and even some new clothes – which, of course, you could not wear on the first day because it was not considered 'cool' to look your best.

Instead, you wore the same ratty jeans you had on at the last day of school from the previous year. Like a fine wine (the kind parents use to celebrate back to school) you had to let the new clothes sit and 'age' for a while.

At least a week, then you could wear a new shirt. A few days later you would venture out in your new jeans and then your new shoes. Eventually you would head out with all of the new clothing on at the same time, but by now school had been in session for at least a couple weeks so you were not branded a geek for wearing new clothes on the first day.

And if memory serves, there was a whole bunch of other reasons you were branded a geek. Or so I have been told anyway.

Anyway, the article recommended all sorts of things to help the youngsters get back into the school groove before school even starts.

They suggest you start preparing your children two weeks before the big day by doing things like establishing a routine, explain expectations, hold those expectations to a realistic level, talk to your child about school etc.

All good advice indeed. When I was a kid heading back to the seventh level of hell, er, I mean school, the only prep we had was seeing those horrid back-to-school commercials on TV.

They would start a couple weeks before the nine months of torture would resume and had the never-failing result of ruining the last vestiges of summer you had yet to enjoy.

Who could enjoy late August when you knew your care-free days were numbered? Not I.

As for my parent's role in preparing me for school, if I recall it went something like this: School starts next week.

The end.

That was about it. A quick reminder I was about to lose my freedom to the dungeon masters of the public education system for another year.

There was no advice on how to get used to going back to school, there were no pep talks, no cushioning the blow – just one day you are enjoying summer, the next you are chained to a desk learning that most evil form of math - algebra.

The first day of school we would find our name on a list taped to the side of the school that let us know what kind of a school year we were in for.

The list told us what our homeroom was and what courses we were taking and when. Groaning and gnashing of teeth was heard throughout the day as people saw their short-term future printed before them in black and white.

You would then run around to all your friends to see if you shared any classes with them which either led to rejoicing or more of that gnashing I was telling you about.

But it only took a few days to get back into the routine and in the back of my mind was always the reassurance that summer vacation was less than 300 days away.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh    

Pay attention to the...hey look, a dog

There has been a lot of talk about exams in school lately and listening to the chatter sent me for a ride down memory lane and my own battles with high school tests.
As the moment of cranial challenging drew near, I would hunker down and spend days studying. Well, maybe not days, perhaps it was more like hours. Well, maybe not hours, perhaps an hour.
Well, perhaps I just read through my notes while having breakfast the morning of the test.
Not the best study techniques, but they worked. OK, they didn’t work, but I still managed to graduate.
And my grades were amazing, as in it is amazing I passed.
I was not exactly the most dedicated student. I had what you might call focus issues.
Pretty much every report card I ever had in my entire life read, “…would do much better if he did not day dream so much.”
You see, back then it was called day dreaming, where a student had a hard time focusing on the task at hand. I would get distracted by birds in a tree outside, bugs crawling across the floor, shiny things – whatever happened to be going on other than school work always seemed to grab my much-divided attention.
It is no longer called day dreaming. Today it is has a label like ADD – attention deficit disorder, or ADHD – attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, or IDRCD – I don’t really care disorder.
I am pretty sure I suffered from the first disorder on the list, and as the school years progressed I morphed into the last disorder.
Looking back, I am sure with the right medication, counselling and large enough bribe I could have achieved much better grades.
That’s not to say I am dumb, I just suffered from a lack of enthusiasm for school.
Although I am sure a few people who read my column on a regular basis will opt for the dumb defence.
They are likely sitting back, mug of coffee in hand thinking, “That explains a lot.”
But if I was interested in something, I knew pretty much all there was to know about it. I can remember going to motorcycle shops and telling the salesman things about the bikes they were selling that they didn’t even know, but ask me to do some algebra and I would stare at you like you were speaking Swahili.
A few days after every school exam the results were posted on a wall in the hallway outside of the classroom. That was yet another brilliant and diabolical scheme by the teachers to highlight the under achievers – and it worked very well.
One time, I remember lining up to check the results when a girl in front of me burst into tears and ran down the hall. I looked up her grade to learn she was devastated she got a mere B-plus in one particular course. It was the first time in 11 years of education she had received anything lower than an A.
Meanwhile, I am doing back flips down the hallway because I pulled off a mighty C in the same class. I guess it is all a matter perspective.
By the time I made it to college I realized diligent study was needed, and I actually cracked the books (and the occasional beer) and knuckled down to do some serious studying.
I don’t think anyone was more surprised than I was with the results. In two years of post-secondary education, my lowest grade was a B.
Perhaps if I had applied myself more in high school I would have…hey, look at that dog.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

Relax little man, it's just a game

Due to the ever-expanding waistline of many high school students, our elected officials have made physical education classes mandatory through Grade 10.
When I was in high school, PE was just a part of the curriculum.
Because the school I went to had a strong athletics program, the gym classes were typically geared toward the jocks, and the teachers (who were also the coaches) would divide us into teams so we could learn to play games like football and basketball.
Funny part was, one side often consisted of members of the school football team and anyone not on the team was designated the opposition, or as they were more commonly known: tackling dummies.
Same for basketball. It just happened to work out all the sportos ended up on the same team and we would spend our class being the opposition while the teacher ran drills. It was not like that for every class, just near the playoffs.
To keep us in shape, the guardians of the jock straps decided we needed to run – a lot. That was fine because I had been running for years already and I was in pretty good shape, but I always questioned the route they chose.
We had a nice, flat field with a track located 50 metres from the gymnasium, but where’s the fun in that?
No, our gym teachers had a much better plan and it was called ‘Running the Tower.’ The Tower was a large water tower on the side of a mountain and the assignment was to run up the mountain, around the tower and then back down the mountain – a distance of about three kilometres. My knees still hurt from the pounding of running down a dirt trail.
The gym teachers at my old alma mater were, for lack of a better term, borderline lunatics.
They were an odd pair. One teacher was huge. You know the type – no neck, unibrow, big forehead, hairy back, looks like he should be sitting in the jungle eating grubs or something. He was your typical muscle-bound super jock who couldn’t make it as a pro so he decided to turn his attention to making life miserable for any non-athletic teens who were unfortunate enough to land in his class.
The other teacher was a little guy and when they walked down the hall together they looked like the bulldog and the Chihuahua from the Bugs Bunny cartoons.
While the big one had to stop walking when he talked so his brain could concentrate on forming words, the little one was much more animated and would turn red in the face, holler, scream and generally freak out if he felt someone was not playing hard enough – and that was just during a ‘fun’ game of floor hockey.
I remember one kid getting hurt and hitting the ground and instead of seeing if he was OK, this teacher was yelling at him to “Get back in there.”
I don’t mean to burst your bubble there Skippy, but this is a Grade 9 floor hockey game, not the Stanley Cup finals and getting maimed for the sake of marginal bragging rights seems pretty stupid to me.
This guy was like that all the time, no matter the surroundings.
Winning a game of kick ball was like the World Series to this little man who was about five feet tall and weighed in at around 120 pounds, but had the attitude of Mike Tyson and Hulk Hogan combined.
“Excuse me, sir. But, are you trying to live vicariously through your students because you were not even big enough to make the junior varsity tidally wink team when you were in school? I mean, if you were any smaller and the mob was after you, you could hide out in an elementary school.”
If it wasn’t so comical, it would be stupid.
He would strut around in his miniature track suit (that I suspect he acquired from the Ken doll sport and leisure line up) with a whistle hanging around his neck that looked like a piece of oversized bling because he was so tiny. And that was when he went grocery shopping. I don’t think I ever saw him without his whistle.
I am not sure where he is now, probably in a nursing home some where with his oversized whistle telling his co-habitants to “walk it off. You call that a stroke, that’s nothing. Get back out there.”

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

Ode to the nerd

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

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

Getting ready to go back to school

I just read a story about how to prepare your child for going back to school. It was full of all sorts of interesting and helpful suggestions, tips and advice for helping your child make the transition from the care-free days of summer to the regimented routine of a public school system.

When I was a child, the only thing we did to prepare for going back to school was go shopping for books, paper, pencils, erasers, (wine for mom and dad to celebrate our return to school) and even some new clothes – which, of course, you could not wear on the first day because it was not considered 'cool' to look your best.

Instead, you wore the same ratty jeans you had on at the last day of school from the previous year. Like a fine wine (the kind parents get to celebrate back to school) you had to let the new clothes sit and 'age' for a while.

At least a week, then you could wear a new shirt. A few days later you would venture out in your new jeans and then your new shoes. Eventually you would head out with all of the new clothing on at the same time, but by now school had been in session for at least a couple weeks so you were not branded a geek for wearing new clothes on the first day.

And if memory serves, there was a whole bunch of other reasons you were branded a geek. Or so I have been told anyway.

Anyway, the article recommended all sorts of things to help the youngsters get back into the school groove before school even starts.

They suggest you start preparing your children two weeks before the big day by doing things like establishing a routine, explain expectations, hold those expectations to a realistic level, talk to your child about school etc.

All good advice indeed. When I was a kid heading back to the seventh level of hell, er, I mean school, the only prep we had was seeing those horrid back-to-school commercials on TV.

They would start a couple weeks before the nine months of torture would resume and had the never-failing result of ruining the last vestiges of summer you had yet to enjoy.

Who could enjoy late August when you knew your care-free days were numbered? Not I.

As for my parent's role in preparing me for school, if I recall it went something like this: School starts next week.

The end.

That was about it. A quick reminder I was about to lose my freedom to the dungeon masters of the public education system for another year.

There was no advice on how to get used to going back to school, there were no pep talks, no cushioning the blow – just one day you are enjoying summer, the next you are chained to a desk learning that most evil form of math - algebra.

The first day of school we would find our name on a list taped to the side of the school that let us know what kind of a school year we were in for.

The list told us what our homeroom was and what courses we were taking and when. Groaning and gnashing of teeth was heard throughout the day as people saw their short-term future printed before them in black and white.

You would then run around to all your friends to see if you shared any classes with them which either led to rejoicing or more of that gnashing I was telling you about.

But it only took a few days to get back into the routine and in the back of my mind was always the reassurance that summer vacation was less than 300 days away.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

I tried to pay attention, honest I did

There is lots of talk about exams in school at this time of year and listening to the chatter sent me for a ride down memory lane and my own battles with high school tests.
As the moment of cranial challenging drew near, I would hunker down and spend days studying. Well, maybe not days, perhaps it was more like hours. Well, maybe not hours, perhaps an hour.
Well, perhaps I just read through my notes while having breakfast the morning of the test.
Not the best study techniques, but they worked. OK, they didn’t work, but I still managed to graduate.
And my grades were amazing, as in it is amazing I passed.
I was not exactly the most dedicated student. I had what you might call focus issues.
Pretty much every report card I ever had in my entire life read, “…would do much better if he did not day dream so much.”
You see, back then it was called day dreaming, where a student had a hard time focusing on the task at hand. I would get distracted by birds in a tree outside, bugs crawling across the floor, shiny things – whatever happened to be going on other than school work always seemed to grab my much-divided attention.
It is no longer called day dreaming. Today it is has a label like ADD – attention deficit disorder, or ADHD – attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, or IDRCD – I don’t really care disorder.
I am pretty sure I suffered from the first disorder on the list, and as the school years progressed I morphed into the last disorder.
Looking back, I am sure with the right medication, counselling and large enough bribe I could have achieved much better grades.
That’s not to say I am dumb, I just suffered from a lack of enthusiasm for school.
Although I am sure a few people who read my column on a regular basis will opt for the dumb defence.
They are likely sitting back, mug of coffee in hand thinking, “That explains a lot.”
But if I was interested in something, I knew pretty much all there was to know about it. I can remember going to motorcycle shops and telling the salesman things about the bikes they were selling that they didn’t even know, but ask me to do some algebra and I would stare at you like you were speaking Swahili.
A few days after every school exam the results were posted on a wall in the hallway outside of the classroom. That was yet another brilliant and diabolical scheme by the teachers to highlight the under achievers – and it worked very well.
One time, I remember lining up to check the results when a girl in front of me burst into tears and ran down the hall. I looked up her grade to learn she was devastated she got a mere B-plus in one particular course. It was the first time in 11 years of education she had received anything lower than an A.
Meanwhile, I am doing back flips down the hallway because I pulled off a mighty C in the same class. I guess it is all a matter perspective.
By the time I made it to college I realized diligent study was needed, and I actually cracked the books (and the occasional beer) and knuckled down to do some serious studying.
I don’t think anyone was more surprised than I was with the results. In two years of post-secondary education, my lowest grade was a B.
Perhaps if I had applied myself more in high school I would have…hey, look at that dog.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

Magic ring makes school officials stupid

Just when you think those in charge could not be any more ridiculous, someone digs down deep, tries harder and sinks to an even greater level of dumb-assery.

In this instance, it involved a nine-year-old boy, a 'magic' ring and a principal who really needs to give his head a shake.

It happened in Texas – where everything is bigger, including dumb decisions.

The young lad in question had just seen the latest Hobbit movie in which the hero, Bilbo Baggins, uses a magic ring to help thwart the bad guys.

Whenever Bilbo wears The One Ring – as it is referred to in the movies – he is invisible to all and the Ring of Power plays a significant and vital role in the movie.

Like most Grade 4 students, this young lad wanted to act out what he saw on the big screen so his dad bought him the 'magic ring' from the movie.

The boy took The One Ring to school to show his friends. He then told one of his friends the ring can make them disappear (as it does in the Hobbit and Lord of the Rings stories).

The highly anal principal interpreted this as a threat to the other student and suspected the nine-year-old, saying threats of any type will not be tolerated.

Seriously, the principal actually kicked the boy out of school for essentially using his imagination.

I agree threats of injury, violence etc. should not be tolerated on any level, but come on, saying a magic ring can make someone disappear is hardly a threat – it's kids goofing around and being kids.

Had be brought a sword to school and said it would make his friend's head disappear that would be a threat worthy of administrative involvement.

But a magic ring?

What about a magic wand? Will all fairy princesses be outlawed because of the dangerous weapon they are packing?

“Run, it's Princess Star Bright and her wand that will make you fart rainbows. Oh the humanity.”

That is just as ridiculous as a 'magic' ring being a threat.

It's not the first time administrative zealots have intervened where they are not wanted or necessary.

Also in the USA was the case of a young deaf boy who was forbidden from signing his name – Hunter – because he had to make his fingers into the shape of a gun to fully sign his moniker.

He was told if he did it again he would be suspended. His parents were quite upset with the school and rightfully so.

Another elementary school banned lunch-hour soccer matches because a parent who was walking near the field got hit in the head with a ball and claimed a concussion.

Dumber still is the elementary school that banned the game of tag because the kids had to touch each other and there was the possibility someone could get hurt.

Officials feared someone might skin a knee, or have some other calamity befall them. Heaven forbid Junior should get a boo-boo while having fun with friends and getting exercise.

Better sit them in front of a computer monitor and feed them sugar where they can't get hurt, well, aside from diabetes and other fat-related illnesses.

And then people wonder why kids today are so chubby, scared and wimpy. Skinned knees are part of being a kid, as are bruises and all sorts of boo-boos.

It's enough to make one want to put on their magic ring and disappear.

Christmas plays sure have changed over the years

For the second year now, I will not have to attend a school Christmas play function.

My youngest is in Grade 9 and high school kids are way too cool to put on a Christmas production, so my days of sitting through an Yuletide show are over.

I don't mean to sound like a theatrical Scrooge or anything, but I must admit I do not miss the annual event.

Sure it was great to see my kids up there singing a song or doing some acting, and for the five minutes they were on stage they had my complete and full attention.

The other 90 minutes or so dragged on like a visit to a singing dentist.

By the time the show was over, the gymnasium was stifling as a couple hundred parents wearing their finest winter gear sat in hard plastic chairs and gave somewhat forced applause as kids they have never seen before did their act.

But every year we would go, we would cheer and we would clap because to the children, it was a big deal. To them it was their chance to shine on stage, whether they wanted to or not.

Christmas productions have been around as long as there have been schools and Christmas.

I participated in them in elementary school even though I was so shy I had a hard time looking myself in the eye in a mirror.

Being more comfortable in the background, I never sought the leading role, but instead opted for something a little more hidden – like a goat, or a tree, or a rock.

Some years I managed to get off the stage completely and helped with building the set, a much more comfortable role for someone of my shy disposition.

Christmas productions have changed dramatically over the years.

When I was in elementary school we always did the manger scene depicting the birth of Christ. Sure there was some singing of Christmas carols and what not, but the show always ended with Mary, Joseph and the baby JC.

By the time my kids were in elementary school, JC was out and it was all about Santa. Political correctness had once again taken over a holiday tradition and the annual production went from the manger to Santa's workshop and stories of elves making presents and Santa saving Christmas from sort of calamity.

God forbid we should offend anyone with a view or belief they did not share.

Sorry, I mean non-specific supreme deity we should offend anyone with a view or belief they do not share.

 Copyright 2014 Darren Handschuh