I recently read a article by local museum curator Ron Candy in which he talked about spiders.
As any one who has read my past columns knows, I do not like spiders. Actually they scare the snot out of me.
In my teen years, my then-girlfriend thought it would be great fun to throw a rather large and ugly spider at me. I am not ashamed, I admit it, I screamed like a frightened school girl on Halloween night.
I then did the spider dance and was generally creeped out for the rest of the day.
In Ron's column, he talked about how beneficial the little critters are. I have never argued their benefit to the world, I have just demanded their execution on sight.
No trial, no jury and no mercy, just straight to the death chamber commonly known as the bottom of my shoe.
The only good spider is a spider that has been smashed into a unrecognizable pile of goo. Now that's my kind of arachnid.
Ron's column talked about how spiders are revered in some cultures. Let's just say I am not from that culture.
Some cultures eat spiders, and I say go ahead because a dead spider is a good spider, just don't invite me over for dinner.
Some cultures keep spiders as pets. Friends of mine have a teen aged son who has a tarantula as a pet. One day she was talking to my wife and said the tarantula had escaped its enclosure.
My wife asked how many times that had happened.
Slamming my foot to the ground as hard as I could my answer was, “Once.”
And I meant it. If I was at their house and the eight-legged horror was walking across the room they would have one less pet to feed (and a carpet to clean.)
Ron goes on to say Hindus in eastern Bengal collect spiders and let them go at a wedding as a sign of good luck.
Who in the blue hell thinks a small army of spiders crawling all over the place is good luck. I would rather have the wedding guests stick pencils up my nose for luck.
It might be good luck for my wife because she could start our marriage by cashing in my life insurance. If there are 100 people at the wedding and each one of them let even one spider go, that would be it for me. I would see all these little eight-legged nasties running around and I would be out of there so fast the wind from me leaving would knock people over.
But if you think that is bad, Ron goes on to describe another tradition in Egypt where it is common practice to place a spider in the bed of the newly married couple.
OK, hold it. Stop right there. Folks, you have just crossed the line.
Putting a spider in my bed is quite possibly the worst idea I have ever heard. Can you imagine being all in love and happy about the nuptials only to find a bug-eyed monster staring back at you from the honeymoon love lounger?
It would be the shortest honeymoon in the history of honeymoons.
“Honey, why don't you pull the sheets back. I'll be right there.”“Why yes my new wife, that sounds like a great plan.”
“Honey, what was that high-pitched scream? Honey? Honey?”
The next sound would be the door breaking as I ran through it to get out of the room.
Throwing rice and toilet-papering the car is quite enough of a wedding tradition for me thank you.
Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh
Sunday, July 31, 2016
Sunday, July 24, 2016
Camping in the rain, we're camping in the rain
For the longest time I couldn't figure
it out.
I work very hard so my family does not
end up sleeping in the woods under canvass, only to intentionally
leave a perfectly good home to sleep in the woods under canvass.
My wife grew up camping. Her family
often headed to the wilds of our glorious province to commune with
nature, to talk to wildlife, to pee on a tree.
My family, on the other hand, never
went camping. Not even once. We would do these annual marathon
two-week vacations that covered just slightly less distance than
Jupiter's path around the sun, but we never went to a campground just
to hang out for a couple days.
The Missus used to do it all the time,
so after we wed, guess who started to go camping?
We would often go with some close
friends and when it was just the four of us, camping was basically a
big two-day party.
OK, that I liked. I was not too keen
with sleeping in a tent like some ground-dwelling savage, but it was
part of camping.
Like they say, happy wife, happy life.
Our friends and us started having kids
at the same time and camping took on a new dimension.
When the kids were little and they
dirty and tired and hungry and screaming I thought I must be demented
for doing this, but happy wife, happy life.
When kid No. 2 arrived we did one
camping trip in a tent and after spending 10 hours loading the truck,
unloading the truck and setting up camp, I decided this was not going
to happen again.
So we bought a tent trailer and camping
was much better – except for the rain that is.
It seemed every time we even thought
about loading the trailer, the heavens would open up with a
torrential rain akin to the days of Noah.
It could have been hot for weeks on
end, but as soon as we headed out camping – whoosh - rain, rain and
more rain.
However, by now the kids were getting
older and they absolutely loved camping.
I was not about to put an end to some
quality family time, so we spent many a summer's day living outside
in the pouring rain.
But the kids really didn't care as long
as they were camping.
I must admit, at first I really did not
see the value in spending all that time, money and effort to sleep in
a woodland realm, but the more my children enjoyed camping the more
the value of such excursions became clear.
Smart woman my wife.
We have been camping with our friends
at least once a summer for close to 30 years. Our children are adults
now, but they still want to go camping with the 'old folks' which I
must admit is pretty cool.
We recently went on our annual trip
with our friends and only one child was not able to make it.
It is a lot different camping with
adult children, and a lot less effort. The kids are like cousins so
they always have fun together, and we older folk can relax by the
fire once again without having to chase little ones to and fro all
weekend.
However, on this most recent trip one
thing did remain the same: the rain.
And by rain I am not talking about a
sprinkling here and there. We did get some off-and-on light rain, but
it was the torrential downpour of apocalyptic proportions that kept
us huddled under a large tarp.
Over a two-day camping trip it rained
buckets, cats and dogs and whatever other cliche you can think of
three times.
Everything felt kind of damp and some
things were downright soaked, but we were having such a good time no
one cared.
So what if it rains, so what if it's
cold. What matters is family, friends, fun and lifelong memories.
Now if we could just do something about
the insects...
Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh
Sunday, July 17, 2016
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
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
Sunday, July 10, 2016
A new level of mall security
I am sure there are hazards associated with the job, but do mall security guards really need to wear bullet-proof vests?
I was strolling through a local mall recently when a SWAT wannabe walked by with his Kevlar-covered chest puffed out in a you-better-not-mess-with-me strut.
He did look pretty fearsome I must admit, and once I was done chuckling at the show of machismo, I was actually almost close to being intimidated.
I’m all about the safety, ask anyone, but I just thought the body armor was a little over the top. Or maybe the black vest was fine, but the swagger of the little man wearing it was the over-the-top part.
Either way, something was over the top and, for me anyway, kind of humorous.
I mean it was a mall, not some drug-addled, inner-city ghetto where he had to take down crack dealers on a regular basis. Not all security guards wear the vests, but I have seen a few mall guards donning the black body armor.
I can understand why there is a need for security, and to be honest with you, it is not a job I would want because who wants to deal with obnoxious and ignorant shoppers all day? I guess there is the possibility of being stabbed and in that case the vest would come in handy.
I hope it would anyway. If the thing can stop a bullet, I assume it can stop a knife. So I guess there is some justification for wearing a bullet-proof vest, but the sniper helmet, balaclava and jump boots were definitely too much.
I saw some security guards working the downtown core, and for those guys I could appreciate the vests because of their clientele, but having been to the mall many times in my life I have never viewed it as a hotbed of danger.
The downtown security guards need a certain attitude, a certain aura to do their job. They need an aura of, “Mess with me and you will be wearing your butt as a hat.”
The ones I saw were also quite big and strong and somewhat scary looking, but that is kind of an occupational requirement for those guys.
I talked to one and he said it was not unheard of to get into a “scuffle” on a regular basis.
Not to diminish the dangers the mall guards face, I have just never felt my safety was marginalized while walking past the food court.
“Hit the ground, a small child is running down the hall.”
“Everybody scramble, a group of teens are talking loudly and laughing.”
I did feel some concern the last time I was in a mall in the United States. I half expected a crazed gunman to come in and start shooting people at random because the store did not have his favourite type of cheese doodles.
At 6’4” tall, I would make an easy target.
“I hate tall, bald guys. I was frightened by a tall bald guy once when I was a kid.”
POW-POW-POW.
I wished I was wearing a bullet-proof vest, and bullet-proof underwear (with optional diaper attachment because if someone starts shooting…), and a bullet-proof helmet and gloves and neck protector and – well, basically just wrap me in Kevlar like a mummy and point in the direction of the tool store.
The most frightened I have ever been in a mall in Canada was when it was just my wife and myself and I noticed a sign at a ladies clothing store boasting “Everything 50 per cent off.”
Eeeek, nooooooo.
I had to think and act fast. At first I tried to walk between her and the sign hoping she would not see, but felt that tactic left too much to chance, so I tried distracting her.
“Hey look over there. Doesn’t that guy resemble Brad Pitt?”
My cleverness turned out to be my demise as she checked out the Brad Pitt look-a-like, reflected in the window where Billy McStudbagel was walking past was the 50 per cent off sign.
Of course in the window it was “ffo tnec rep 05” but she quickly reversed the numbers and letters and spun on her heels like a military drill sergeant and headed straight to the store.
It was like an invisible force was drawing her.
I began to protest, but upon hearing my words of disharmony, a security guard, dressed from head to toe in medieval battle armor, intervened and asked me if everything was alright.
Everything was fine, and besides who could argue with someone dressed like King Arthur (with a bullet-proof vest of course.)
Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh
I was strolling through a local mall recently when a SWAT wannabe walked by with his Kevlar-covered chest puffed out in a you-better-not-mess-with-me strut.
He did look pretty fearsome I must admit, and once I was done chuckling at the show of machismo, I was actually almost close to being intimidated.
I’m all about the safety, ask anyone, but I just thought the body armor was a little over the top. Or maybe the black vest was fine, but the swagger of the little man wearing it was the over-the-top part.
Either way, something was over the top and, for me anyway, kind of humorous.
I mean it was a mall, not some drug-addled, inner-city ghetto where he had to take down crack dealers on a regular basis. Not all security guards wear the vests, but I have seen a few mall guards donning the black body armor.
I can understand why there is a need for security, and to be honest with you, it is not a job I would want because who wants to deal with obnoxious and ignorant shoppers all day? I guess there is the possibility of being stabbed and in that case the vest would come in handy.
I hope it would anyway. If the thing can stop a bullet, I assume it can stop a knife. So I guess there is some justification for wearing a bullet-proof vest, but the sniper helmet, balaclava and jump boots were definitely too much.
I saw some security guards working the downtown core, and for those guys I could appreciate the vests because of their clientele, but having been to the mall many times in my life I have never viewed it as a hotbed of danger.
The downtown security guards need a certain attitude, a certain aura to do their job. They need an aura of, “Mess with me and you will be wearing your butt as a hat.”
The ones I saw were also quite big and strong and somewhat scary looking, but that is kind of an occupational requirement for those guys.
I talked to one and he said it was not unheard of to get into a “scuffle” on a regular basis.
Not to diminish the dangers the mall guards face, I have just never felt my safety was marginalized while walking past the food court.
“Hit the ground, a small child is running down the hall.”
“Everybody scramble, a group of teens are talking loudly and laughing.”
I did feel some concern the last time I was in a mall in the United States. I half expected a crazed gunman to come in and start shooting people at random because the store did not have his favourite type of cheese doodles.
At 6’4” tall, I would make an easy target.
“I hate tall, bald guys. I was frightened by a tall bald guy once when I was a kid.”
POW-POW-POW.
I wished I was wearing a bullet-proof vest, and bullet-proof underwear (with optional diaper attachment because if someone starts shooting…), and a bullet-proof helmet and gloves and neck protector and – well, basically just wrap me in Kevlar like a mummy and point in the direction of the tool store.
The most frightened I have ever been in a mall in Canada was when it was just my wife and myself and I noticed a sign at a ladies clothing store boasting “Everything 50 per cent off.”
Eeeek, nooooooo.
I had to think and act fast. At first I tried to walk between her and the sign hoping she would not see, but felt that tactic left too much to chance, so I tried distracting her.
“Hey look over there. Doesn’t that guy resemble Brad Pitt?”
My cleverness turned out to be my demise as she checked out the Brad Pitt look-a-like, reflected in the window where Billy McStudbagel was walking past was the 50 per cent off sign.
Of course in the window it was “ffo tnec rep 05” but she quickly reversed the numbers and letters and spun on her heels like a military drill sergeant and headed straight to the store.
It was like an invisible force was drawing her.
I began to protest, but upon hearing my words of disharmony, a security guard, dressed from head to toe in medieval battle armor, intervened and asked me if everything was alright.
Everything was fine, and besides who could argue with someone dressed like King Arthur (with a bullet-proof vest of course.)
Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh
Sunday, July 3, 2016
A few truths about summer
Summer is here and the keepers of public health want to make sure we, the public, stay healthy.
To achieve this lofty goal, the all-knowing medical type people, or their media relations specialists anyway, have compiled a list designed to keep all of us healthy and happy.
Although the safety tips came via email from the North Shore Long Island Jewish Health System where one of their doctors wrote a book about summer safety, many of them apply to those of us in the Okanagan.
I have to admit some of the summer 'myths' I believed, but since an official type person is telling me they are not true, I guess they are not true.
One of the most common summer myths is you have to wait 30 minutes after eating before you can go swimming.
According to the medical experts, you can hit the water as soon as you are done eating, you can even swim while you are still eating, but that will make your sandwich soggy and dilute your soup a substantial degree.
So all that time I wasted as a kid waiting for my hotdog to digest was pointless, kind of like eating hotdogs for their nutritional value.
Another summer myth is a poison ivy rash is contagious. The rash may not be contagious, but the laughter and mocking of everyone around the victim certainly is.
You should suck the venom out of a snakebite.
Even if that myth were true, the victim's chance of survival would largely depend on where they were bitten.
“Quick, a rattlesnake just bit me on the butt.”
“Well, it looks like you're gonna die.”
Sparklers are a safe alternative to fireworks.
Wrong, nothing beats a bag-full of cardboard tubes crammed with gunpowder, a six pack of beer and a lighter for a night of fun.
“Hello, 9-1-1...”
The next myth will apply to many of us, er, I mean you guys.
There is no harm in peeing in a pool that has been properly chlorinated.
Wrong, and gross actually.
I am sure many among us, er, I mean you, have tinkled in a pool before.
It is amazing how kids can spend hours in the pool and never get out, but you ask them to mow the lawn and they gotta go pee every three minutes.
But it would seem children are not the only ones who raise the water level of a pool. According to the medical centre, a recent survey of 1,000 adults showed 17 per cent of them admitted to peeing in a pool.
Survey says: That is disgusting.
There are many truths about summer as well and here are a few for the Okanagan.
Truth: The more beer you have, the more likely you are to see the legendary lake monster Ogopogo.
Somehow, I am not sure of the exact science, but beer makes people see better, go figure.
Or perhaps brewskis attracts the water beast, who knows. The next time I am lounging near the lake with a cool one I will ask him, or her.
Truth: The car in front of you on a two-lane stretch of road will base their driving speed on how late you are for work. The later you are, the slower they will drive.
Truth: There is always at least one weight-enhanced gentleman at the beach who figures he looks good in a Speedo.
Sir, on behalf of pretty much everyone in the world, I would like to state for the record that you do not look good, so stop scaring small children (and everyone else) and put some clothes on.
Truth: When you park your car under a tree to keep it out of the sun a bird will poop on the windshield in your exact line of vision. That poop will then solidify into a material slightly stronger than cement and will take days to wash off.
Enjoy your summer.
To achieve this lofty goal, the all-knowing medical type people, or their media relations specialists anyway, have compiled a list designed to keep all of us healthy and happy.
Although the safety tips came via email from the North Shore Long Island Jewish Health System where one of their doctors wrote a book about summer safety, many of them apply to those of us in the Okanagan.
I have to admit some of the summer 'myths' I believed, but since an official type person is telling me they are not true, I guess they are not true.
One of the most common summer myths is you have to wait 30 minutes after eating before you can go swimming.
According to the medical experts, you can hit the water as soon as you are done eating, you can even swim while you are still eating, but that will make your sandwich soggy and dilute your soup a substantial degree.
So all that time I wasted as a kid waiting for my hotdog to digest was pointless, kind of like eating hotdogs for their nutritional value.
Another summer myth is a poison ivy rash is contagious. The rash may not be contagious, but the laughter and mocking of everyone around the victim certainly is.
You should suck the venom out of a snakebite.
Even if that myth were true, the victim's chance of survival would largely depend on where they were bitten.
“Quick, a rattlesnake just bit me on the butt.”
“Well, it looks like you're gonna die.”
Sparklers are a safe alternative to fireworks.
Wrong, nothing beats a bag-full of cardboard tubes crammed with gunpowder, a six pack of beer and a lighter for a night of fun.
“Hello, 9-1-1...”
The next myth will apply to many of us, er, I mean you guys.
There is no harm in peeing in a pool that has been properly chlorinated.
Wrong, and gross actually.
I am sure many among us, er, I mean you, have tinkled in a pool before.
It is amazing how kids can spend hours in the pool and never get out, but you ask them to mow the lawn and they gotta go pee every three minutes.
But it would seem children are not the only ones who raise the water level of a pool. According to the medical centre, a recent survey of 1,000 adults showed 17 per cent of them admitted to peeing in a pool.
Survey says: That is disgusting.
There are many truths about summer as well and here are a few for the Okanagan.
Truth: The more beer you have, the more likely you are to see the legendary lake monster Ogopogo.
Somehow, I am not sure of the exact science, but beer makes people see better, go figure.
Or perhaps brewskis attracts the water beast, who knows. The next time I am lounging near the lake with a cool one I will ask him, or her.
Truth: The car in front of you on a two-lane stretch of road will base their driving speed on how late you are for work. The later you are, the slower they will drive.
Truth: There is always at least one weight-enhanced gentleman at the beach who figures he looks good in a Speedo.
Sir, on behalf of pretty much everyone in the world, I would like to state for the record that you do not look good, so stop scaring small children (and everyone else) and put some clothes on.
Truth: When you park your car under a tree to keep it out of the sun a bird will poop on the windshield in your exact line of vision. That poop will then solidify into a material slightly stronger than cement and will take days to wash off.
Enjoy your summer.
Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh
Sunday, June 26, 2016
They're right, you can't herd a cat
So there I was, pitted against a wily
beast.
A creature of such cunning, such
prowess I knew the odds were heavily against me.
But I refused to give up.
First, I tried sneaking up on the beast
from behind, but my ninja-like skills have been slowed by old age,
well middle age anyway, and the furred critter made good its escape.
Perhaps enticing the beast with food
would bring it close enough for me to get my hands it.
And then again, perhaps not.
Said beast remained just out of arms
reach, foiling an otherwise brilliant plan.
A few other attempts were made to grab
the wayward animal, but in the end I had to admit defeat.
I had been outsmarted and outmaneuvered
by a one-year-old cat.
Young Daughter wanted a pet of her own,
so a year ago we picked up a kitten.
Her name is Lisa, a.k.a. Little Cat,
and she is your typical cat that does typical cat things.
We decided she would be an outside cat,
so we let her explore the backyard in short stints and she seemed
fine with that because every little sound scared the snot out of her.
A bug farted and she sprinted for the
backdoor like a pack of wolves were after her. Sure it was pretty big
bug, but she is not exactly coming across as a fierce creature.
And I am OK with that as it should
improve her survival odds in the great outdoors.
And it's not like we live in the deep
forest or harsh jungle. We live in your typical suburban
neighbourhood mostly devoid of vicious predators.
There are, however, coyotes in the
surrounding hills and we occasionally hear them howling and yipping
at night.
And that is why I ended up spending a
good portion of my evening trying to herd a cat into the house.
It was near dark and Lisa bolted out
the back door as fast a cat can bolt, which all cat owners know is
pretty fast.
In a flash she was out the door and
down the stairs.
She jumped the fence and settled in our
neighbour's yard as my wife muttered some words under her breath
while watching Little Cat take off.
Not wanting Lisa to spend the night
outside, my wife made numerous attempts to corral the kitty back into
the house, but to no avail.
You know what they say about herding
cats?
Well, it's true. It is an impossible
task.
So with my wife stressed out and Young
Daughter having a slight meltdown at the prospect of her beloved
kitty surviving on her own through the night, I was asked to assist.
(Like I am some sort of cat-herding expert or something.)
I spent the next while trying to get
Little Cat into the house where there was no risk of coyotes, eagles,
cougars, polar bears or any other nasty chompers that might want to
have a snack before bedtime.
I tried to explain to everyone that
this is what outside cats do: they go outside. She will not have been
the first feline in history to spend the night outdoors and I had all
the confidence in the world there was a pretty good chance Lisa could
do it.
But to appease the Missus and Young
Daughter, I did my best to get Little Cat into the house.
However, as darkness enveloped the
land, I knew it was a lost cause and finally convinced everyone there
was nothing more we could do.
Reluctantly, everyone headed into the
house, leaving Lisa to her fate and all hoping she would return in
the morning – which she did.
As soon as the Missus got up, she
checked for Little Cat who was sitting at the back door with a very
proud look on hear face.
She had done it, she survived her first
night in the wilds of suburbia with out so much as a scratch.
The Missus was relieved, Young
Daughter, oh, hell, we were all relieved.
I learned a couple things that day:
Little Cat can make it on her own and it really is impossible to herd
a cat.
Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh
Sunday, June 19, 2016
A vacation to remember
It
was a family vacation I will never forget. It included a tent
trailer, a campground and an oncoming tornado.
How did a born-and-raised B.C. boy end up staring down the business end of a twister? Let's just say it was not on the vacation brochure.
I witnessed the raw power of Mother Nature when I was about 12 years old and the family was venturing out on one of our annual marathon road trips into the United States.
We were heading to Lousianna because my parents actually knew some people down there whom they had not seen in many years.
It was the first time I had ever heard a Southerner speak (this was long before Duck Dynasty or any other southern red neck show) so it was interesting to hear people say, 'Y'all.'
Apparently, when you are down south certain vowels are optional when you speak. Why? Beats me, but that's the way they did it.
We spent a couple weeks with our American brethren, and to this day I still say Y'all. It is just something I picked up and it stuck with me like a language tattoo. I also occasionally say po-lice, with an emphasize on the 'po' part. Other than that, I remained a true Canadian, eh.
Anyway, on our way to the land of gumbo (whatever that is), we ended up in a campground in the middle of Tornado Alley.
We were a family of six in a big blue van hauling a tent trailer and as we were setting up for the evening, we noticed the sky looking rather ominous. And by ominous, I mean apocalyptic kind of ominous.
We went about our business as the heavens grew darker, and eventually the wind and rain became a concern.
Then my dad heard someone say two words that sent us into a near panic - 'tornado watch.'
We were from B.C., so what did we know about tornados? Nothing, that's what. We dialled in to the emergency radio station where the announcer said if you hear what sounds like a freight train, that is a tornado.
We had been hearing that sound for the last 20 minutes. We all looked to dad for guidance, not considering this was his first tornado as well.
But he knew what to do and we were ready to abandon camp and head for cover.
The announcer confirmed a tornado was on the ground and we spent several tense minutes listening to the radio and trying to figure out exactly where the twister was. Being tourists, we had knew few reference points and had a hard time pinpointing its location.
It turned out to be a lot closer than we thought. The tornado broke up less than two miles from our campsite. It was heading straight for us.
It wasn't a huge tornado and fortunately no lives were lost, but it was one of the most memorable and definitely the most terrifying family vacation moment ever.
It wasn't until many years later I started to wonder what dad was thinking as we huddled in our van listening to an emergency radio channel while a storm unlike any we had ever seen raged nearby.
I remember my little brother looked terrified, mom sat in prayerful silence and my two sisters were on the verge of tears born of fear and stress.
But somehow dad looked calm.
Perhaps I saw the situation through they eyes of a pre-teen who knew his dad was the biggest and strongest person alive and he would never let anything bad happen to us.
I can recall a look of concern, but not fear on his face. On the inside, he was likely as scared as any of us, but with all eyes upon him, he did not show it.
He told us of his plan should the tornado get closer and I found great comfort knowing Dad had everything under control.
Eventually the radio announcer said the storm had broken up and our moment of tornado terror was over.
I am sure no one was more relieved than my father.
How did a born-and-raised B.C. boy end up staring down the business end of a twister? Let's just say it was not on the vacation brochure.
I witnessed the raw power of Mother Nature when I was about 12 years old and the family was venturing out on one of our annual marathon road trips into the United States.
We were heading to Lousianna because my parents actually knew some people down there whom they had not seen in many years.
It was the first time I had ever heard a Southerner speak (this was long before Duck Dynasty or any other southern red neck show) so it was interesting to hear people say, 'Y'all.'
Apparently, when you are down south certain vowels are optional when you speak. Why? Beats me, but that's the way they did it.
We spent a couple weeks with our American brethren, and to this day I still say Y'all. It is just something I picked up and it stuck with me like a language tattoo. I also occasionally say po-lice, with an emphasize on the 'po' part. Other than that, I remained a true Canadian, eh.
Anyway, on our way to the land of gumbo (whatever that is), we ended up in a campground in the middle of Tornado Alley.
We were a family of six in a big blue van hauling a tent trailer and as we were setting up for the evening, we noticed the sky looking rather ominous. And by ominous, I mean apocalyptic kind of ominous.
We went about our business as the heavens grew darker, and eventually the wind and rain became a concern.
Then my dad heard someone say two words that sent us into a near panic - 'tornado watch.'
We were from B.C., so what did we know about tornados? Nothing, that's what. We dialled in to the emergency radio station where the announcer said if you hear what sounds like a freight train, that is a tornado.
We had been hearing that sound for the last 20 minutes. We all looked to dad for guidance, not considering this was his first tornado as well.
But he knew what to do and we were ready to abandon camp and head for cover.
The announcer confirmed a tornado was on the ground and we spent several tense minutes listening to the radio and trying to figure out exactly where the twister was. Being tourists, we had knew few reference points and had a hard time pinpointing its location.
It turned out to be a lot closer than we thought. The tornado broke up less than two miles from our campsite. It was heading straight for us.
It wasn't a huge tornado and fortunately no lives were lost, but it was one of the most memorable and definitely the most terrifying family vacation moment ever.
It wasn't until many years later I started to wonder what dad was thinking as we huddled in our van listening to an emergency radio channel while a storm unlike any we had ever seen raged nearby.
I remember my little brother looked terrified, mom sat in prayerful silence and my two sisters were on the verge of tears born of fear and stress.
But somehow dad looked calm.
Perhaps I saw the situation through they eyes of a pre-teen who knew his dad was the biggest and strongest person alive and he would never let anything bad happen to us.
I can recall a look of concern, but not fear on his face. On the inside, he was likely as scared as any of us, but with all eyes upon him, he did not show it.
He told us of his plan should the tornado get closer and I found great comfort knowing Dad had everything under control.
Eventually the radio announcer said the storm had broken up and our moment of tornado terror was over.
I am sure no one was more relieved than my father.
Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh
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