Friday, June 29, 2018
Thursday, June 28, 2018
This Meagre Existence
He was one of the kindest men I knew. By now, he has long gone.
Though he never spoke of where his home country lay, I always assumed that he was Eastern European. His soft voice and subtle accent intoned a mix of German, Polish, or even Russian. If I had to make an educated guess, I'd say Bulgaria.
I should have asked.
While he was carrying extra pounds, I wouldn't ever consider him fat. He had that well-fed look that many men get with age: that belly that makes us almost look pregnant. I have a bit of that look, these days, but his age—somewhere in his 80s—also gave him the jowls that could wobble with laughter. His grey hair was thinning but, in lifting high over his head, seemed full. He wore thin, silver-rimmed glasses, and always had a smile on his face.
Always.
He was a regular customer of the camera store, and so I saw him a couple of times each month. He would drop off rolls of film, would be in no rush for the prints to come back, and took the one-week return. Because he was a good customer, if the in-store lab was slow, we would ask him if he had other errands to run in the mall. If he did, we would tell him to come back in a half-hour to hour. Though we would charge him for the one-week turnaround, we'd process the roll right away.
Any time he entered the store, I would always call out to him, even if I was already serving another customer. "How are you, Mr. G—?"
His answer was always—always—the same: "Oh, you know, surviving the trials and tribulations of this meagre existence."
I never tired of his response.
Even later, when I moved from the camera store to one of the banks in the mall, to which I learned he was a customer, I would greet him the same way and he would give me the same response.
As a customer of the camera store, he would sometimes show me his processed photos. Photography was a casual hobby of his, though even in his 80s, he was looking to learn. He would show me a photograph and would ask me for advice: "How could I reduce the clarity in the background? I want to focus on the subject." "How could I keep the sunset while keeping the person illuminated?" I would take the time to explain the aperture settings and how they affected depth of field, or I would suggest he add a flash to a sunset, to illuminate his subjects. I didn't know the answer right away, I would ask the other photographers in the store, or I would consult one of the photography books that were kept in a display case.
In the bank, I would try to meet with him at the side counter, ask him about his photography, ask him how he was feeling. I anticipated his pat answer to the latter. He would also ask me about my interests. He knew that I had developed a love of wine, had studied several books on the subject, had enrolled in the sommelier program at Algonquin College.
One day, as my day at the bank was drawing to a close, Mr. G— came in and went straight to the customer service counter, asked to specifically speak with me. He was conducting no bank business, that day, but wanted to see me. When I finished with my customer, I approached him.
Mr. G— pulled out a gift bag from the LCBO. "I know how you love wine, and I wanted to give you this."
"Thank you!" I said, "You needn't have gone to such trouble. What's the occasion?"
"No occasion," he replied. "I just wanted to. I wanted to give something to my favourite person in this mall."
I was deeply touched. I thanked him again. "How are things going with you?"
"Oh, you know," he began, and we finished it in unison, "surviving the trials and tribulations of this meagre existence."
As fate would have it, on the day that I received this gift, I had plans to meet friends who worked in a boutique wine shop, downtown. Every week, I paid these friends a visit, and I would always bring a bottle of wine that we would share and appreciate in the boutique's tasting room. That day, we enjoyed the Bordeaux that Mr. G— had given me. Though I have long-forgotten the label, I have never forgotten the richness of that Cabernet Sauvignon-Cabernet Franc blend.
A couple of days after that tasting, I discovered that wine in the LCBO. It came with a $50 price tag.
I said a fond farewell to Mr. G— before my wife and I left for Korea. I wrote him a couple of postcards in the first few months, but he never wrote back. Perhaps, the address seemed too strange for him to copy. Perhaps, he just wanted me to get on with my life.
He was in his 80s when I last saw him, more than 20 years ago. Surely, he is no longer among us.
On a recent visit to my massage therapist, it came to my attention that every time we greeted, she asked me how I was doing. Without thinking, my response was the same as it is for everyone who asks me. "Fine." Only, when I see her, she's looking to know how my body is doing, how she can help me in my visit. I always have to step back and explain where I'm hurting, where my stiffness lies.
I've realized that my response of "Fine" just doesn't cut it, anymore. Going forward, my response will be a nod to an old man who was always kind to me, who never wanted anything in return. If you ever run into me and ask me how I'm doing, I know what I'll say.
"Oh, you know, surviving the trials and tribulations of this meagre existence."
Though he never spoke of where his home country lay, I always assumed that he was Eastern European. His soft voice and subtle accent intoned a mix of German, Polish, or even Russian. If I had to make an educated guess, I'd say Bulgaria.
I should have asked.
While he was carrying extra pounds, I wouldn't ever consider him fat. He had that well-fed look that many men get with age: that belly that makes us almost look pregnant. I have a bit of that look, these days, but his age—somewhere in his 80s—also gave him the jowls that could wobble with laughter. His grey hair was thinning but, in lifting high over his head, seemed full. He wore thin, silver-rimmed glasses, and always had a smile on his face.
Always.
He was a regular customer of the camera store, and so I saw him a couple of times each month. He would drop off rolls of film, would be in no rush for the prints to come back, and took the one-week return. Because he was a good customer, if the in-store lab was slow, we would ask him if he had other errands to run in the mall. If he did, we would tell him to come back in a half-hour to hour. Though we would charge him for the one-week turnaround, we'd process the roll right away.
Any time he entered the store, I would always call out to him, even if I was already serving another customer. "How are you, Mr. G—?"
His answer was always—always—the same: "Oh, you know, surviving the trials and tribulations of this meagre existence."
I never tired of his response.
Even later, when I moved from the camera store to one of the banks in the mall, to which I learned he was a customer, I would greet him the same way and he would give me the same response.
As a customer of the camera store, he would sometimes show me his processed photos. Photography was a casual hobby of his, though even in his 80s, he was looking to learn. He would show me a photograph and would ask me for advice: "How could I reduce the clarity in the background? I want to focus on the subject." "How could I keep the sunset while keeping the person illuminated?" I would take the time to explain the aperture settings and how they affected depth of field, or I would suggest he add a flash to a sunset, to illuminate his subjects. I didn't know the answer right away, I would ask the other photographers in the store, or I would consult one of the photography books that were kept in a display case.
In the bank, I would try to meet with him at the side counter, ask him about his photography, ask him how he was feeling. I anticipated his pat answer to the latter. He would also ask me about my interests. He knew that I had developed a love of wine, had studied several books on the subject, had enrolled in the sommelier program at Algonquin College.
One day, as my day at the bank was drawing to a close, Mr. G— came in and went straight to the customer service counter, asked to specifically speak with me. He was conducting no bank business, that day, but wanted to see me. When I finished with my customer, I approached him.
Mr. G— pulled out a gift bag from the LCBO. "I know how you love wine, and I wanted to give you this."
"Thank you!" I said, "You needn't have gone to such trouble. What's the occasion?"
"No occasion," he replied. "I just wanted to. I wanted to give something to my favourite person in this mall."
I was deeply touched. I thanked him again. "How are things going with you?"
"Oh, you know," he began, and we finished it in unison, "surviving the trials and tribulations of this meagre existence."
As fate would have it, on the day that I received this gift, I had plans to meet friends who worked in a boutique wine shop, downtown. Every week, I paid these friends a visit, and I would always bring a bottle of wine that we would share and appreciate in the boutique's tasting room. That day, we enjoyed the Bordeaux that Mr. G— had given me. Though I have long-forgotten the label, I have never forgotten the richness of that Cabernet Sauvignon-Cabernet Franc blend.
A couple of days after that tasting, I discovered that wine in the LCBO. It came with a $50 price tag.
I said a fond farewell to Mr. G— before my wife and I left for Korea. I wrote him a couple of postcards in the first few months, but he never wrote back. Perhaps, the address seemed too strange for him to copy. Perhaps, he just wanted me to get on with my life.
He was in his 80s when I last saw him, more than 20 years ago. Surely, he is no longer among us.
On a recent visit to my massage therapist, it came to my attention that every time we greeted, she asked me how I was doing. Without thinking, my response was the same as it is for everyone who asks me. "Fine." Only, when I see her, she's looking to know how my body is doing, how she can help me in my visit. I always have to step back and explain where I'm hurting, where my stiffness lies.
I've realized that my response of "Fine" just doesn't cut it, anymore. Going forward, my response will be a nod to an old man who was always kind to me, who never wanted anything in return. If you ever run into me and ask me how I'm doing, I know what I'll say.
"Oh, you know, surviving the trials and tribulations of this meagre existence."
Wednesday, June 27, 2018
Tuesday, June 26, 2018
Then and Now: York Street
I doubt the horses had trouble parking. That their drivers, eyes scanning the large area, had to roll in a counter-clockwise oval, hoping that someone would exit a store, bar, restaurant, or nightclub, get into their vehicle, and pull out.
With any luck, the driver would get to that vacated slot before another driver and horse took that space.
Probably not.
Then again, there wasn't a clear parking area. there was no fountain in one of the city's smallest parks (Memorial Park). Back then, around 1911, York Street was full of grocery stores, butcher shops, hardware shops, and more. Where the restaurant, 18, stands, long before it was Guadala Harry's, the building housed a cheese factory. Before then, in 1877, it was the Institut canadien-francais d'Ottawa.
Today, York Street is still full of life. Some of the buildings are gone, but many still exist. From the outside, they seem untouched by time, right up to the paint on the sides of buildings. But where horse and buggy once pulled right up to the shop fronts, automobiles now vie for a space in the centre of the large boulevard. Parking garages flank the south and north sides of the street.
And, of course, there's that large AWATTO sign.
But without Ottawa, even backwards, there's a giant "AW."
With any luck, the driver would get to that vacated slot before another driver and horse took that space.
Probably not.
Then again, there wasn't a clear parking area. there was no fountain in one of the city's smallest parks (Memorial Park). Back then, around 1911, York Street was full of grocery stores, butcher shops, hardware shops, and more. Where the restaurant, 18, stands, long before it was Guadala Harry's, the building housed a cheese factory. Before then, in 1877, it was the Institut canadien-francais d'Ottawa.
 |
| York Street, circa 1911. Photo from Wikipedia. |
And, of course, there's that large AWATTO sign.
But without Ottawa, even backwards, there's a giant "AW."
 |
| Aw... Joseph Grant's sign, still visible. |
Monday, June 25, 2018
Where In Ottawa LXX
It's been nine months since I ran a Where In Ottawa photo challenge, and it's high time I did another.
A few months ago, when DW and I were wandering the Golden Triangle, DW suggested a number of buildings that I could photograph for my contest.
"I don't do that, anymore," I said.
"What? Since when?"
It was good to see that she was paying attention to my blog. It had been about six months since I ran Where In Ottawa, and she had been with me when I photographed the Carp Library. I hadn't mentioned the contest, or a need to find a spot to shoot, since then.
When she and I reached Lisgar Collegiate, she started pointing at the intricate masonry work. "See? That would be a good thing to use for Where In Ottawa." I took a snapshot and we wandered the old building, capturing more images, though, in my heart, I just wasn't into it.
I only had my Canon compact digital camera and my friend's Ricoh 35mm manual rangefinder cameras on me. When we returned home, I downloaded some of the photos off the digital camera, and stored them for potential use for my Black and White project. The rest of the images, including the snapshots of Lisgar, were deleted.
Eventually, I'll see the images I captured with the 35mm camera. But, of course, I'll never use them for my photo challenge, as I have just revealed Lisgar Collegiate as a potential site.
A few weeks ago, DW and I were once again out on the town, my D-SLR casually slung over my shoulder. I saw a building that captured my interest, and so I started taking a few snaps. Before I knew it, I was capturing closeups, much as I did when I was running my photo challenge.
It was a random encounter that made me feel it was time to bring my challenge back.
For those of you who may have never seen Where In Ottawa, this is the gist:
Here's the photo. Good luck.
Think you know Ottawa? Prove it!
A few months ago, when DW and I were wandering the Golden Triangle, DW suggested a number of buildings that I could photograph for my contest.
"I don't do that, anymore," I said.
"What? Since when?"
It was good to see that she was paying attention to my blog. It had been about six months since I ran Where In Ottawa, and she had been with me when I photographed the Carp Library. I hadn't mentioned the contest, or a need to find a spot to shoot, since then.
When she and I reached Lisgar Collegiate, she started pointing at the intricate masonry work. "See? That would be a good thing to use for Where In Ottawa." I took a snapshot and we wandered the old building, capturing more images, though, in my heart, I just wasn't into it.
I only had my Canon compact digital camera and my friend's Ricoh 35mm manual rangefinder cameras on me. When we returned home, I downloaded some of the photos off the digital camera, and stored them for potential use for my Black and White project. The rest of the images, including the snapshots of Lisgar, were deleted.
Eventually, I'll see the images I captured with the 35mm camera. But, of course, I'll never use them for my photo challenge, as I have just revealed Lisgar Collegiate as a potential site.
A few weeks ago, DW and I were once again out on the town, my D-SLR casually slung over my shoulder. I saw a building that captured my interest, and so I started taking a few snaps. Before I knew it, I was capturing closeups, much as I did when I was running my photo challenge.
It was a random encounter that made me feel it was time to bring my challenge back.
For those of you who may have never seen Where In Ottawa, this is the gist:
- Below, you will see a photo that I shot somewhere in Ottawa. The challenge is to identify the building and/or the location. The first person to correctly identify the location wins the challenge.
- For the correct response to be eligible, it must be left in the Comments area of this post. A lot of people who follow me on Twitter and Facebook tend to give me their answer on these forms of social media. Whether you're right or wrong, I won't respond to guesses left there. I will simply direct you to these rules.
- Starting tomorrow (Tuesday), I will add a clue to the sidebar on my blog, just below my photograph. For every day that the challenge goes unsolved, I'll add another clue.
- You can guess as many times as you like. The contest ends as soon as the location is correctly identified. If it hasn't been solved by noon on Friday, June 29, the contest will end. The location will be revealed on Monday, July 2.
- Whoever correctly identifies the location will be named on Monday, July 2, and will win the bragging rights of expertly knowing Ottawa.
Here's the photo. Good luck.
Think you know Ottawa? Prove it!
Friday, June 22, 2018
Thursday, June 21, 2018
Beer O'Clock: Space Invaders
You got me, Amsterdam.
It's been a few years since I've reviewed one of your beers; nearly as long, since I've even drank one. I don't remember when I decided to stop drinking your products, or why. (That's not true: I do remember, but it's not worth mentioning. It's all in the past.)
I realized that I was only hurting myself by avoiding your great beer, but yet I still denied myself a can or two when I was in an LCBO.
Until this week, Amsterdam. You got me.
I'm a sucker for nostalgia: I love finding old photos, whether it be of my city, in its early years, or rediscovering old pastimes that I had long forgotten.
When I was in my teens, in the late 70s and early 80s, my sisters, friends, and I would spend our weekends at an Ottawa roller-skating rink, Skateway Roller Disco. We would spend hours, dancing in circles on our skates, long before inline skates was a thing. The strobe lights, disco ball, and coloured lights. The giant stack of speakers in the centre of the rink.
Man, I loved to skate, and I did it well: speed-skating, waltzes, spins. Girls would want to skate with me to the slow songs because I could help them spin on the floor, would help them improve their own skills.
I had the moves. (Too bad I didn't have the ability to attract them beyond the rink.)
When I needed to take a break, I would head over to the arcade area and plunk my quarters into one game and one game alone: Space Invaders.
That's where you got me, Amsterdam. That bright can with the pixelated enemy that I spent untold amounts of time and money, trying to eliminate with a joystick and a big red button. Row after row, wave after wave of these aliens, moving side-to-side across the screen, slowly descending toward my defenses.
Your label got me. I had to have that beer. I had to try it and share my thoughts. Which brings us here:
Nose: mild citrus and even milder pine resin.
Palate: orange rind and bitter tea. The flavour starts mild and builds in intensity, toward a finish that gets bigger the more you drink. It accumulates, just like the waves of alien enemies that keep coming and coming, faster and faster.
Overall impression: this IPA plays out like that game from the 1970s, but from a 2018 perspective. That is to say, had Space Invader IPA hit the market when Space Invaders was popular, the beer would have been a sensation. Revolutionary.
Looking at Space Invaders today is like comparing it to Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild. It would be interesting, but not a game-changer. There are much better and more complex games out there, today.
Still, Amsterdam's beer is good. But when you compare it to the other IPAs of today—even to its own Boneshaker—what you get is an India Pale Ale that is easy-drinking but offers nothing that stands out as extraordinary.
Beer O'Clock rating: 3
I would drink this ale any time it was offered to me but I'm not sure I'd seek it out. Much like I would play Space Invaders if I found myself in front of the game, with time on my hands, but I wouldn't go searching for it in an arcade.
But you got me, Amsterdam. I'm back. I'll ignore you in the stores no more. With Space Invader, you have me nostalgic for your brews.
Cheers!
It's been a few years since I've reviewed one of your beers; nearly as long, since I've even drank one. I don't remember when I decided to stop drinking your products, or why. (That's not true: I do remember, but it's not worth mentioning. It's all in the past.)
I realized that I was only hurting myself by avoiding your great beer, but yet I still denied myself a can or two when I was in an LCBO.
Until this week, Amsterdam. You got me.
I'm a sucker for nostalgia: I love finding old photos, whether it be of my city, in its early years, or rediscovering old pastimes that I had long forgotten.
When I was in my teens, in the late 70s and early 80s, my sisters, friends, and I would spend our weekends at an Ottawa roller-skating rink, Skateway Roller Disco. We would spend hours, dancing in circles on our skates, long before inline skates was a thing. The strobe lights, disco ball, and coloured lights. The giant stack of speakers in the centre of the rink.
 |
| There's a high probability that I'm somewhere in this photo. |
I had the moves. (Too bad I didn't have the ability to attract them beyond the rink.)
When I needed to take a break, I would head over to the arcade area and plunk my quarters into one game and one game alone: Space Invaders.
That's where you got me, Amsterdam. That bright can with the pixelated enemy that I spent untold amounts of time and money, trying to eliminate with a joystick and a big red button. Row after row, wave after wave of these aliens, moving side-to-side across the screen, slowly descending toward my defenses.
Your label got me. I had to have that beer. I had to try it and share my thoughts. Which brings us here:
Appearance: a deep, golden amber, with loads of sediment that moves around, working its way to the bottom of the glass, just like the digital aliens march toward the structures that rest between my cannon and certain doom. A white, foamy head pours thick but settles to a creamy, firm cap.Space Invader IPA (6% ABV)
Amsterdam Brewery
Toronto ON
Nose: mild citrus and even milder pine resin.
Palate: orange rind and bitter tea. The flavour starts mild and builds in intensity, toward a finish that gets bigger the more you drink. It accumulates, just like the waves of alien enemies that keep coming and coming, faster and faster.
Overall impression: this IPA plays out like that game from the 1970s, but from a 2018 perspective. That is to say, had Space Invader IPA hit the market when Space Invaders was popular, the beer would have been a sensation. Revolutionary.
Looking at Space Invaders today is like comparing it to Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild. It would be interesting, but not a game-changer. There are much better and more complex games out there, today.
Still, Amsterdam's beer is good. But when you compare it to the other IPAs of today—even to its own Boneshaker—what you get is an India Pale Ale that is easy-drinking but offers nothing that stands out as extraordinary.
Beer O'Clock rating: 3
I would drink this ale any time it was offered to me but I'm not sure I'd seek it out. Much like I would play Space Invaders if I found myself in front of the game, with time on my hands, but I wouldn't go searching for it in an arcade.
But you got me, Amsterdam. I'm back. I'll ignore you in the stores no more. With Space Invader, you have me nostalgic for your brews.
Cheers!
Wednesday, June 20, 2018
Tuesday, June 19, 2018
Under The Umbrellas
As I whined, last week, about my black-and-white photo project and how I'm getting tired of schlepping around three or more cameras, every day, I'm reminded of a stop that I made, last Friday, on my morning commute to work.
In a couple of Facebook photo groups I follow, on Instagram, and on Twitter, I noticed that various local photogs had discovered a spot where several coloured umbrellas were hanging, suspended, in close formation, as though they were all floating earthward, their handles pointing toward the direction of the ground. The effect was so cool that I thought I had to find this area and capture images for myself.
Of all the photos I saw, no one revealed the location of this display of parasols. It wasn't until I saw one photo, with a familiar building in the distant background, that I knew exactly where this spot was. I waited until the next morning where the forecast called for clear skies, and left for work a little earlier than usual.
The detour was only slight.
So there I was, at 6:30, on Friday morning, with four cameras: my Nikon D-SLR, my Canon PowerShot compact digital, my Android smartphone, and a Ricoh 500G manual rangefinder, with black-and-white 35mm film. And above me, countless colourful umbrellas.
(I'm sure I could count them, but I was on the clock.)
I used all of the cameras, reaching into my bag, pulling out one device, shooting images, putting the camera away, grabbing the next one, and so on... wanting to know how each camera captured the images.
In no particular order, here are photos from the three digital cameras.
I won't have the photos for the Ricoh until the entire roll of film is used up, which should be within a month.
Which photo do you prefer?
In a couple of Facebook photo groups I follow, on Instagram, and on Twitter, I noticed that various local photogs had discovered a spot where several coloured umbrellas were hanging, suspended, in close formation, as though they were all floating earthward, their handles pointing toward the direction of the ground. The effect was so cool that I thought I had to find this area and capture images for myself.
Of all the photos I saw, no one revealed the location of this display of parasols. It wasn't until I saw one photo, with a familiar building in the distant background, that I knew exactly where this spot was. I waited until the next morning where the forecast called for clear skies, and left for work a little earlier than usual.
The detour was only slight.
So there I was, at 6:30, on Friday morning, with four cameras: my Nikon D-SLR, my Canon PowerShot compact digital, my Android smartphone, and a Ricoh 500G manual rangefinder, with black-and-white 35mm film. And above me, countless colourful umbrellas.
(I'm sure I could count them, but I was on the clock.)
I used all of the cameras, reaching into my bag, pulling out one device, shooting images, putting the camera away, grabbing the next one, and so on... wanting to know how each camera captured the images.
In no particular order, here are photos from the three digital cameras.
I won't have the photos for the Ricoh until the entire roll of film is used up, which should be within a month.
Which photo do you prefer?
Monday, June 18, 2018
Walking on Broken Bones
The conversation went like this:
Doctor: "So, Ross, how's the foot feeling?"
Me: "It's getting much worse. It feels like I'm walking on a broken foot."
Doctor: "Well, in a sense, you are. Let's take a look at the scans... ."
The nurse who admitted me to the examining room, for this appointment, had already inserted the CD in the disc drive. I had brought the CD with me, from the Smiths Falls hospital, where a couple of months ago I had had CT scans on both feet.
The doctor opened a program that showed a clear black and white image of both feet. He rotated and zoomed in on the images to get a better look of the left foot. "No wonder your foot feels like it's broken. It really is broken."
He zoomed in on the area where I'm experiencing the most pain, where the foot clicks and crackles, like I'm walking on egg shells with every step. An actual piece of bone appeared suspended above the other bones that were still attached to one another. It was clear that this piece had broken free from the arthritic mass on the top of my foot.
The solution is clear: surgery.
The doctor continued examining the images of my foot, layer by layer, zooming in on some areas, rotating others to gain a new vantage. Because the arthritis is so extensive, he told me that it won't be an easy surgery. He will most likely require extra bone material to fix it, most likely taken from my shin. Another place to extract bone would be the hip, but he's reluctant because he knows that the pain, afterwards, is substantial.
I've had bone taken out of my hip before, and let me assure you: it hurts. A lot. The first time that the orderlies and nurses moved me, shortly after my first foot surgery, they tried to get me to sit up. The pain was so intense that I projectile-vomited on one of the nurses before blacking out.
A third option, explained the doctor, would be to harvest bone from a cadaver. I liked that option: the dead feel no pain.
We filled out forms, talked about the risks. Because the arthritis was so bad, he had no clear path for fusing the bones that are degenerating because of the Köhler's Disease. He told me that the surgery might not work. He may have to operate more than once.
These are risks that I've heard before: in fact, I experienced them with my right foot, when I had my two surgeries for Köhler's in the early 90s.
"Let's do this," I said. "And, if anything goes wrong, don't hesitate to cut it off."
My doctor smiled. I've asked him to cut my foot off at every visit.
"Only, if you do cut off the foot, you'll have to take the other one, too. With prostheses, I intend to add about four inches to my height."
That got a laugh.
So now, I wait. My doctor is booked through to September. He told me it would be autumn, most likely, early October. It will require an overnight stay in hospital (my first surgery kept me in hospital for a week; the second, five days). I'll be in a cast for about six to eight weeks, and then another month in a boot. It will take about four to six months before I fully heal, assuming the surgery is a success.
My doctor knows that I like to cycle, knows I've missed the last two Rideau Lakes Cycle Tours. He, himself, also cycles and has said he'd like to ride the RLCT some day.
If all goes well, perhaps we'll ride it together.
For now, I have to wait four months, all the while walking on broken bones.
Doctor: "So, Ross, how's the foot feeling?"
Me: "It's getting much worse. It feels like I'm walking on a broken foot."
Doctor: "Well, in a sense, you are. Let's take a look at the scans... ."
The nurse who admitted me to the examining room, for this appointment, had already inserted the CD in the disc drive. I had brought the CD with me, from the Smiths Falls hospital, where a couple of months ago I had had CT scans on both feet.
The doctor opened a program that showed a clear black and white image of both feet. He rotated and zoomed in on the images to get a better look of the left foot. "No wonder your foot feels like it's broken. It really is broken."
He zoomed in on the area where I'm experiencing the most pain, where the foot clicks and crackles, like I'm walking on egg shells with every step. An actual piece of bone appeared suspended above the other bones that were still attached to one another. It was clear that this piece had broken free from the arthritic mass on the top of my foot.
The solution is clear: surgery.
The doctor continued examining the images of my foot, layer by layer, zooming in on some areas, rotating others to gain a new vantage. Because the arthritis is so extensive, he told me that it won't be an easy surgery. He will most likely require extra bone material to fix it, most likely taken from my shin. Another place to extract bone would be the hip, but he's reluctant because he knows that the pain, afterwards, is substantial.
I've had bone taken out of my hip before, and let me assure you: it hurts. A lot. The first time that the orderlies and nurses moved me, shortly after my first foot surgery, they tried to get me to sit up. The pain was so intense that I projectile-vomited on one of the nurses before blacking out.
A third option, explained the doctor, would be to harvest bone from a cadaver. I liked that option: the dead feel no pain.
We filled out forms, talked about the risks. Because the arthritis was so bad, he had no clear path for fusing the bones that are degenerating because of the Köhler's Disease. He told me that the surgery might not work. He may have to operate more than once.
These are risks that I've heard before: in fact, I experienced them with my right foot, when I had my two surgeries for Köhler's in the early 90s.
"Let's do this," I said. "And, if anything goes wrong, don't hesitate to cut it off."
My doctor smiled. I've asked him to cut my foot off at every visit.
"Only, if you do cut off the foot, you'll have to take the other one, too. With prostheses, I intend to add about four inches to my height."
That got a laugh.
So now, I wait. My doctor is booked through to September. He told me it would be autumn, most likely, early October. It will require an overnight stay in hospital (my first surgery kept me in hospital for a week; the second, five days). I'll be in a cast for about six to eight weeks, and then another month in a boot. It will take about four to six months before I fully heal, assuming the surgery is a success.
My doctor knows that I like to cycle, knows I've missed the last two Rideau Lakes Cycle Tours. He, himself, also cycles and has said he'd like to ride the RLCT some day.
If all goes well, perhaps we'll ride it together.
For now, I have to wait four months, all the while walking on broken bones.
Friday, June 15, 2018
Thursday, June 14, 2018
Bored of Black and White
Maybe, I'm just tired of carrying around a minimum of three cameras.
When I challenged myself to last year's daily-photo project, I realized just how hard that can be, especially if you commit yourself to taking that photo and processing and posting it every single day. With the exception of my trip to Cuba, where I had no Internet, every day in 2017 showed an image that I had taken and shared for that day.
It was labour-intensive, so much so that when December 31 was done, I didn't touch my D-SLR camera for several weeks.
I did, however, immediately start another photo project, but this time I pulled out some older cameras; one, which was low-tech and uses 35mm film.
But with this project, I'm finding that I have to push myself to coming up with a subject and going out and capturing it, and, almost halfway through the project, I'm getting bored. Last week, I was tempted to give up the weekly challenge, but I still have a few photos that I've placed in a storage folder for this project (I don't have to shoot a photo every single week).
I haven't been satisfied with the quality of image that I'm capturing with my small, point-and-shoot digital camera, and I've instead used my smartphone for many photos (my only limit on this project is that I don't use my Nikon).
Many days, I'm carrying my pocket Canon Sureshot, an old Ricoh rangefinder (I also used it on last week's photo walk), and my smartphone. Other days, I want to leave them at home.
I may change the project so that I allow myself to include photos that I shoot with my Nikon, but I haven't yet made up my mind.
At the time of writing this post, I had no photo ready for tomorrow's project post. We'll see if I decide to allow images from my D-SLR or if I scrap the project altogether.
Stay tuned...
When I challenged myself to last year's daily-photo project, I realized just how hard that can be, especially if you commit yourself to taking that photo and processing and posting it every single day. With the exception of my trip to Cuba, where I had no Internet, every day in 2017 showed an image that I had taken and shared for that day.
It was labour-intensive, so much so that when December 31 was done, I didn't touch my D-SLR camera for several weeks.
But with this project, I'm finding that I have to push myself to coming up with a subject and going out and capturing it, and, almost halfway through the project, I'm getting bored. Last week, I was tempted to give up the weekly challenge, but I still have a few photos that I've placed in a storage folder for this project (I don't have to shoot a photo every single week).
I haven't been satisfied with the quality of image that I'm capturing with my small, point-and-shoot digital camera, and I've instead used my smartphone for many photos (my only limit on this project is that I don't use my Nikon).
Many days, I'm carrying my pocket Canon Sureshot, an old Ricoh rangefinder (I also used it on last week's photo walk), and my smartphone. Other days, I want to leave them at home.
I may change the project so that I allow myself to include photos that I shoot with my Nikon, but I haven't yet made up my mind.
At the time of writing this post, I had no photo ready for tomorrow's project post. We'll see if I decide to allow images from my D-SLR or if I scrap the project altogether.
Stay tuned...
Wednesday, June 13, 2018
Tuesday, June 12, 2018
Home Gardening
I'm very proud of the time and hard work that DW has put into our back yard. Every day, after dinner, and all afternoon, on weekends, she has put on some work clothes, donned her garden gloves, and torn up her flower beds.
She has pulled up bag-loads of weeds and bushes that have creeped in from neighbouring gardens. She has turned soil, planted new flowers and vegetables, and covered the beds with sheep manure and cedar mulch.
Even I have lent a modest hand, cutting out the weeds that have crept through the interlocking brick on our patio. It keeps creeping back, so it's not a perfect job, and the edges always seem to need another go.
With the gazebo that we built over the Victoria Day long weekend, we have set out our patio furniture and made the back yard a hospitable place. We've even strung lights under the roof to illuminate this mini retreat at night.
DW isn't quite finished, but it's clear that the end of her work is in sight. It is a completely refreshing transformation of this part of our home.
Last year, we all but neglected the space behind our house. I went in the back yard only a few times: to cook on the barbecue (we would eat indoors) or to occasionally run the lawn mower, after the grass grew so high that our cat could hide in the growth.
Once, I went into the yard to replace a cedar two-by-four that had begun to rot on the top of our fence.
Last year, we didn't even go to the effort of putting out our patio furniture. The back yard was a wasteland.
Our back ward is welcoming. On Sunday night, even, we invited my folks for a barbecue dinner sat under the gazebo, which we screened in to keep the mosquitoes and wasps away.
But our back yard is not perfect. For years, we've neglected one part of our yard, between our neighbours, from where the patio ends at the side of the house to where our gate, which we almost never open, keeps the weeds and unruly vines in a rectangular confinement.
Every summer, I promise to control it. Every summer, I try to pretend that the space doesn't exist.
Yup, our back yard looks pretty good. But only if you stand in certain spots and don't look in others.
She has pulled up bag-loads of weeds and bushes that have creeped in from neighbouring gardens. She has turned soil, planted new flowers and vegetables, and covered the beds with sheep manure and cedar mulch.
Even I have lent a modest hand, cutting out the weeds that have crept through the interlocking brick on our patio. It keeps creeping back, so it's not a perfect job, and the edges always seem to need another go.
With the gazebo that we built over the Victoria Day long weekend, we have set out our patio furniture and made the back yard a hospitable place. We've even strung lights under the roof to illuminate this mini retreat at night.
DW isn't quite finished, but it's clear that the end of her work is in sight. It is a completely refreshing transformation of this part of our home.
Last year, we all but neglected the space behind our house. I went in the back yard only a few times: to cook on the barbecue (we would eat indoors) or to occasionally run the lawn mower, after the grass grew so high that our cat could hide in the growth.
Once, I went into the yard to replace a cedar two-by-four that had begun to rot on the top of our fence.
Last year, we didn't even go to the effort of putting out our patio furniture. The back yard was a wasteland.
Our back ward is welcoming. On Sunday night, even, we invited my folks for a barbecue dinner sat under the gazebo, which we screened in to keep the mosquitoes and wasps away.
But our back yard is not perfect. For years, we've neglected one part of our yard, between our neighbours, from where the patio ends at the side of the house to where our gate, which we almost never open, keeps the weeds and unruly vines in a rectangular confinement.
Every summer, I promise to control it. Every summer, I try to pretend that the space doesn't exist.
Yup, our back yard looks pretty good. But only if you stand in certain spots and don't look in others.
Monday, June 11, 2018
From One Photo Walk to the Next
By the time a photo walk has wrapped up and I take the time to review and process the images that I've captured, the last thing on my mind is another photo walk.
This time, it's different.
In the past, when I've set a date for a photo walk, I have notified people through The Brown Knowser and through Twitter. For my recent walk, which took place last Friday, I also notified a Facebook photographer's group, the Ottawa Area Photographers.
The response from the group was almost immediate and positive. Within a couple of days of posting my event, which I managed through Eventbrite, the event was more than 75-percent sold out. In just over a week, all the spots were taken and I opened four more. Within a week of the event, it was sold out.
Event sends an automated message 48 hours before the event to everyone who has signed up: only, for my event, the wrong time was provided in the message, whereby the start time was moved up by four hours. I've used Eventbrite about 20 times and it's never done that before.
Immediately, some of the folks who signed up contacted me, wanting to know why I had changed the time. Some mentioned that they couldn't come at 3:30 in the afternoon, and would have to decline. A couple of people, who didn't contact me, cancelled their reservation.
I hope that they didn't cancel because of the erroneous time change.
The weather was perfect. Not too warm, with a gentle breeze. The sunset was spectacular as we reached the Alexandra Bridge. We moved much slower than I had planned—mostly, because I moved much slower than I had intended. Some photogs left as the two-hour planned time approached, while others stayed longer.
In the end, four of us lasted until almost midnight.
Thanks to everyone who attended.
Because of the positive responses that I've had from the attendees, from my Facebook group, and from Twitter, I'm already thinking about the next photo walk. My first thoughts were in a couple of months, in early August, but I'm thinking that too many folks will be on vacation (I know that I'll be away for the last half of that month). Perhaps the second weekend in September?
I'm thinking about holding in an afternoon, in the Glebe. More details will come in the next month or so. If you'd like to come along, follow me on Twitter or follow my hashtag, #BKPW. I will, as always, post an official event on Eventbrite and will provide details, here, when a date is set.
Stay tuned...
I've already shared some of my photos through various social media. I'll share more, this week, for Wordless Wednesday.
This time, it's different.
In the past, when I've set a date for a photo walk, I have notified people through The Brown Knowser and through Twitter. For my recent walk, which took place last Friday, I also notified a Facebook photographer's group, the Ottawa Area Photographers.
The response from the group was almost immediate and positive. Within a couple of days of posting my event, which I managed through Eventbrite, the event was more than 75-percent sold out. In just over a week, all the spots were taken and I opened four more. Within a week of the event, it was sold out.
Event sends an automated message 48 hours before the event to everyone who has signed up: only, for my event, the wrong time was provided in the message, whereby the start time was moved up by four hours. I've used Eventbrite about 20 times and it's never done that before.
Immediately, some of the folks who signed up contacted me, wanting to know why I had changed the time. Some mentioned that they couldn't come at 3:30 in the afternoon, and would have to decline. A couple of people, who didn't contact me, cancelled their reservation.
I hope that they didn't cancel because of the erroneous time change.
The weather was perfect. Not too warm, with a gentle breeze. The sunset was spectacular as we reached the Alexandra Bridge. We moved much slower than I had planned—mostly, because I moved much slower than I had intended. Some photogs left as the two-hour planned time approached, while others stayed longer.
In the end, four of us lasted until almost midnight.
Thanks to everyone who attended.
Because of the positive responses that I've had from the attendees, from my Facebook group, and from Twitter, I'm already thinking about the next photo walk. My first thoughts were in a couple of months, in early August, but I'm thinking that too many folks will be on vacation (I know that I'll be away for the last half of that month). Perhaps the second weekend in September?
I'm thinking about holding in an afternoon, in the Glebe. More details will come in the next month or so. If you'd like to come along, follow me on Twitter or follow my hashtag, #BKPW. I will, as always, post an official event on Eventbrite and will provide details, here, when a date is set.
Stay tuned...
I've already shared some of my photos through various social media. I'll share more, this week, for Wordless Wednesday.
Friday, June 8, 2018
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