The Brown Knowser

There's not much to say about this week's photo. I discovered these solar panels, atop several similar structures, in Ashton Station and between Ashton and Prospect. Whether they're owned by the City of Ottawa or the province, they cut a sharp contrast to the sky. Black and blue. Happy Friday!

There's a reason why The Brown Knowser came back, and it wasn't just to share my recent vacation. Last December, I wrote about how my blog was going to take a hiatus while I focused on my novel, how I might occasionally post some photos to let people know that the blog wasn't dead. I started thinking more about the sequel to Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary , and would devout the hours that I usually spend on these gentle musings on writing that required more dedication (and would be created with far more thought than this blog spends). About two weeks before I planned to place this blog on pause (I had already written and set up the posts for the end of December), I became ill. It started with a sharp pain where my appendix would be, had my appendix been on my left side. For a couple of days, the pain was ba d and I was in little mood to do anything, let alone write. As Christmas drew near, the pain wasn't as sharp, but every time I ate, no matter how big of how sm...

About a year ago, my wife and I nursed an orchid back to life . Or what I should say is, my wife diligently maintained an orchid that had bloomed, lost its flowers, and then had its stem trimmed back. I just moved it into a better spot on the kitchen window sill and periodically let excess water drip from my fingers into the flower pot when I washed my hands a t the kitchen sink. Whatever we (she) did, the stem regrew, buds formed, and the orchid blossomed again. When the flowers died, we repeated the process, and that brings us to now, where the orchid has marked spring in the Brownfoot household. Whatever my wife and I are doing right, we hope it continues each year. To capture this shot, I moved the orchid in front of my TV. Blinds, which I opened to the left of the shot, let afternoon sunshine pour into the family room. I set my camera on a tripod and operated it with my remote shutter release. To keep the light from reflecting the brightly lit room on the TV screen, I...

One time, when Starbucks messed up my coffee order, not only did they make me a new coffee right away, they also gave me a coupon for a free beverage of any size for my next visit. Another time, when they made me wait a long time because my order somehow got lost in the crowd, I received a $10 certificate. My original order was less than $4. In San Diego, last month, my appetizer came only a couple of minutes before my main course. I didn't notice the delay, but my server apologized and didn't charge me. In all of these cases, the customer service went above and beyond my expectations, and solidified my loyalty to the establishment. Last week, my car suffered a major failure, which nearly resulted in a serious accident and could have cost me grave injury—possibly, my life. For my trouble, Ford said "sorry" and charged me $100 to fix the problem. True, they followed their commitment  to the automobile and honoured my warranty. But as far as making me feel lik...

He approached me in the middle of a crowd. Hundreds of Bernie Sanders supporters were exiting the San Diego Convention Center, gleefully chanting "Feel the Bern!" as they flooded into the Gaslamp Quarter. The convention centre was on the other side of a set of tracks: one set, for commercial freight trains; the other, for San Diego's light rail. Traffic was brought to a standstill as the barriers came down and a commuter train stopped to let passengers depart and enter. I set up my camera on its tripod and held the remote, waiting for the doors to close and the train to start moving. As the doors closed, I started my 30-second exposure by pressing the remote button. "Excuse me, sir, how are you this evening," said the voice next to me. The uniformed officer was young and, surprisingly, shorter than me. Short, dark hair and a thin face with piercing eyes. "Fine," I said, "it's a beautiful night, isn't it?" Indeed, it was a love...

When I look at my bucket list of places to visit before I die, the United States doesn't have a lot of entries. I would love to go to Ohio, to visit my dear friends, Jason and Jami, but it's not Ohio that calls to me. It's my friends, who I would meet anywhere in the world, if I had the resources to go anywhere whenever I wanted to see friends. As far as the United States goes, I have already seen most of the places that are on my bucket list: I love New York City and will still go as many times as I can. I love Chicago but have only explored it at night, having only visited it on business and not having time during the day to visit its museums, galleries, and parks. One of my oldest friends, Stu, and I have made plans to get away for a guy's weekend out, and The Windy City is at the top of our list of venues in which to meet. I've been to Washington, DC, and to Savannah, Georgia, two places that have held my interest. I have now been to the Grand Canyon—with an...

It's not the car I would have chosen. For our Southwestern USA trip, I wanted an American car, one that I wouldn't ever want to own, but one that fit in with our trip. I envisioned a Ford Taurus or a Dodge Charger: something with a big engine that would take up the road. Big. Bold. American. When we arrived at Avis, in Phoenix, my brother-in-law, who drove my wife and me to the rental agency, joked with the agent about us taking a Mustang convertible : the agent, who was typing up the agreement, looked at me and asked, "Do you want a Mustang? I can give you a Mustang." The car was in the same class that we reserved, and I was tempted, would have said yes if it was only my wife and me on this trip. I'm sure the kids would have been over the moon if we pulled up at my in-law's place in a performance car with its top down, but they wouldn't have liked to sit in the back, with luggage crammed around them, for the entire journey. When we were in Fr...

There's something mystical, even in its name: Superstition Mountains. And even though we did not take the Apache Trail on horseback, or with a wagon train, you could still get that feeling of the Wild West. And even though we were travelling in only two vehicles—my brother and his family, leading in their Chevy Suburban, and me and my family, in our rented Toyota Avalon—it felt like a convoy, nonetheless. Route 88, as it's called now, leads northeast out of Apache Junction, a small community on Phoenix's eastern end. The winding road climbs and dips from ridge to ridge, and as you approach the tiny town of Tortilla Flat, with its population of six (thought the tourists and shop employees seemed to outnumber the residents by about 10 to one), you encounter a large reservoir of Canyon Lake, along Salt River, and you're taken aback from this desert region. Pleasure boats cruise about and you feel as though you're no longer in Arizona, but in the Finger Lakes of upp...