It may not taste great, but it's good for you - sigh

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 disappearing in the rearview mirror, 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 lad, 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. No more fries, cheese, bacon (noooooo) or any of the other stuff I have enjoyed for decades.

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 should never again even think of eating ever again.

Upon reading the list, I quickly realized eating the paper itself would likely taste better than most of the stuff on the list.

I admit, the list did contain a plethora of healthy items that I know I have to eat in order to live a long life – a long bacon-less life.

More greens, OK, I can do that. More fibre, OK, I can do that. Less of everything else, um, er, I'll work on it.

But I know and accept that as we age, we have to change our lifestyles. No longer can I stay up until the wee hours of the morning and then bounce out of bed ready to go to work.

I go to bed in the wee hours of the evening now and it is still tough to not smash the alarm clock with a barrage of verbal and physical abuse when it goes off.

But with age comes maturity (well, that's the theory anyway) and with maturity comes the strength and will power to skip the bacon cheeseburger and fries and go with a nice salad instead.

So over the past couple of years I have eaten more greenery than a rabbit with the munchies. Salads of all description now fill my plate instead of real food.

Fries have been replaced with carrot sticks and celery; fried chicken has been replaced by boneless, skinless whole chicken breast spread out atop a field of greens loaded with all those ingredients needed to live that long life I was talking about earlier.

And that really is the goal: to live as long as possible because the alternative sucks and I plan on making dying the last thing I do.

So, yes I will have the salad please.

Would I like bacon bits sprinkled on top?

OK, just this once.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

Drop the needle and travel back in time

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 when I bought the Missus a record player for a gift.

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 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, but 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 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.)

Def Lepard, Styx, AC/DC (of course) and a whole pile of classic tuneage 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 (beer)-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 five years ago.

We used to listen to that record 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 filled my consciousness 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 on Joe's Garage and be reunited with my buddy through the magical time travel that only music can provide.

Eventually, but just not today.

Copyright 2016, 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    

I'm tired and wanna go to bed

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 pheasants 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.

When I was 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 away.

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 temptress, 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 bright eyed and full of energy, now I am ready to tackle the couch for a nap the first chance I get.

But 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.

Now if you will excuse me, I feel a nap coming on.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

News flash: cats rule the world

I read an article that said the common house cat is a direct descendant of wildcats.
“Domestic cats can be traced to wild progenitors that interbred well over 100,000 years ago, new research indicates,” said a CNN website.
And if CNN says it, it must be true.
So house cats come from wild cats..... well, there’s a shock. Let me guess, dogs are somehow related to wild wolves and a budgie is the long-lost cousin of a condor.
I am more of a dog person than a cat person, but when my son was much younger, he wanted to get a pet so Gilbert the Cat entered our lives.
Although he technically belongs to my son, from his point of view we all belong to him.
The fickle feline will come when he wants, go when he wants, eat when he wants and, in general, act very much like a teenager all the time.
And could someone please tell me why he has to stick his butt in the air when you pet him.
It is most unappealing.
A dog would not do that. Mind you, I have seen a dog eat its own barf, which is something a cat would never do.
A dog looks at it and thinks, “Hey, where did that tasty treat come from?”
A cat looks at it and thinks, “Somebody better clean that up.”
We were kind of reluctant to get Gil at first, because I can’t stand the spastic, hyper-freak cats that go through the roof at the slightest sound.
If you are going to have a pet, it might as well be one you can interact with. As far as I am concerned pets are something to, well, pet. That’s why they are called pets.
If the cat clings to the ceiling every time you walk pass, it likely will not be the best critter to have around children.
Some friends had a monstrous black tabby name Figaro. The cat was a freak of nature. It was not only big, it was mean.
“Uh, you better not pet him. He’s not real friendly. In fact, you should try to keep a couple feet away from him at all times,” was often what the owners told people who saw Catzilla for the first time.
Figs, as he was called, would take a swipe at you just for walking by. Only one of their daughters dared touch the beast that, for reasons only a cat can understand, was as gentle as a baby fawn with her.
With the rest of the world, he was more like one of his wildcat ancestors – only meaner.
They endured Figaro for 12 years. I think they were too afraid to touch him, which is why they never got rid of him.
He was the only cat I have ever seen with a tattoo and leather jacket.
Gil on the other hand, could not be any more mellow if we fed him valium. Nothing fazes him — not loud noises, sudden movements — nothing.
And that is a good thing.
When he first came to his home (it used to be my home until he moved in and declared it his own) he was an adult, so we missed all the clawing and stuff kittens do.
He is also an accomplished hunter and a killer through and through.
Within a couple weeks of his arrival, mouse and bird carcasses (or what was left of them) began popping up in our yard.
One day, he left almost an entire mouse on the front steps. My son was proud of the hunting ability of his furry friend and I explained it was an offering from Gil to him declaring they were part of the same pride.
I told him it was a cat thing.
He thought that was pretty cool, until I told him in keeping in the tradition of the cat kingdom, he had to eat the mouse.
His jaw hit the floor and his eyes bugged out until he realized I was, of course, kidding.
Gil was also a bit of scrapper when he first showed up. He and a few neighbourhood cats quickly established a pecking order and as far as I can see, he is pecking the heck out of the other cats.
Gil is now a senior car, he's getting a little slower, a little greyer, but he is still the king of all he surveys – just like every cat in the world.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

And that's why I'm scared of spiders

A few people have asked me recently how I became so deathly afraid of spiders.

Was I born an arachnid wimp who always screeched like a frightened school girl at the site of an eight-legged beast, or did it take time to become such a fraidy cat?

It happened one fateful day when I was in elementary school.

Up until that day of infamy I was not a huge fan of spiders, but I was not the trembling super wuss I am today.

Like every little boy anywhere in the world, I was interested in gross stuff like bugs, snakes and other such critters. We used to catch grasshoppers by the handful and chase dragonflies every chance we got.

I can even remember grabbing some of those big, ugly, nasty looking water beetles from out of our pool.

As I grew older, my fear and dislike of insects grew – that will happen when you catch a biting or stinging variety one time too many – but I had not yet developed the mind-numbing terror I feel as an adult.

Spiders were never one of my favourite bugs to play with, but it was on a camping trip in school that my stark raving fear of spiders was tattooed onto the psyche.

It was day two of a four-day trip when some friends and I (yes, I had friends in school) were goofing around and running about the campground.

I can remember being chased by buddy of mine for some reason or another when I turned hard off the roadway and into the surrounding woods.

I was ducking and dodging branches and bushes like a woodland sprite when I cut between two trees.

It was then that fate took its cruel turn in an incident that would scar me for life.

You see, strung between those two poplar trees was a spider web. A big spider web. A big spider web that was about head high.

I hit the web at full speed and it wrapped around my face like a mask. Of course spider webs are sticky, so it didn't just hit my face, it super glued itself to my entire head.

Now the thing about spider webs is they often contain a spider. And often the spider will sit in the very centre of the web and wait for an unsuspecting insect to get caught in its trap of doom.

When I hit the web, the spider, which was roughly the size of a small Bassett hound, ended up in my left eye socket.

As of that wasn't bad enough, the beast then scampered up my forehead, over the top of my head and down my back – into my shirt.

To say I freaked out is to say the Titanic had a bit of a mishap.

I clawed at the web to get it off my head even as I felt the spider run down the back of my neck.

I was spinning and turning and thrashing like a mad man having a standing seizure.

This is known as the spider dance – an uncontrollable, panic-driven set of moves designed to rid yourself of any possible intruder. This works for bugs of all description, but is most enthusiastically done with a spider.

Anyway, after doing the spider dance to the amusement of my friends, I tore my shirt off, slammed it on the ground and continued to twist and gyrate like I was on fire.

Once I calmed down, I stomped on the shirt repeatedly in case the spider was still in its cottony folds.

I don't recall if I ever wore that shirt again, but to this day I can still recall the feeling of that massive, prehistoric-sized spider clambering across my face and head.

Even thinking about it now sends a shiver up my spine causing me to do the spider twitch (a much more subdued version of the spider dance.)

And that, dear readers, is how I became terrified of spiders; and really, who could blame me.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh