My Favourite Photos of 2021

For me, 2021 will be seen as the year where I lost the will to leave my house to take photos. Indeed, I rarely picked up my Nikon D750 and when I used my D7200, it was mostly in my backyard, photographing birds at the feeder or flowers blossoming in spring.

More times than not, the only camera on me was the one on my smartphone. But as the saying goes, the best camera for the job is the one you have with you.

For most of the year, I also revisited old photos, ones that I had shot decades ago with my Minolta X-700. I looked at old slide photos and tried to bring new life to them, using the photo-editing software that I received at the end of 2020.

So, while I have lots of photos to share for my annual, year-end post, there are the odd images, retooled and given a new life in 2021. As always, I hope you enjoy them.

Januarys are always tough for me. I really hate the cold and the first month of the year typically brings us some of the deepest freezes. But the beginning of January, this year, actually saw unseasonably milder temperatures and it was easier to get out. DW and I also bought snowshoes, so we were doubly motivated to enjoy the outdoors while we could. The preceding photo was shot on the first weekend of the month, along the trails around the Fletcher Wildlife Gardens. It was also the first photo that I manipulated with one of my new software tools, Luminar AI. 

Though we were nearing sunset, on our snowshoeing adventure, we were still almost an hour away, so I added the orangy-yellow sky and applied a sunset filter to give the barn a dull warmth. It wasn't bad for a first try.

On one of the coldest days of the year, DW decided that she wanted to skate along the Rideau Canal, from Dow's Lake to the NAC. Because it was so cold, she wanted it to be a one-way journey, so she convinced me to get up early and drive her to her drop-off point and pick her up, downtown. 

I drove to Ottawa's Golden Triangle neighbourhood and parked on Cooper Street, a short walk to the canal. While I waited for her, I carefully walked on the ice and snapped some misty-morning shots. This one is my favourite of the bunch.

DW and I also spent some weekends, visiting our friend in Plantagenet, where I captured a wintery scene of his maple-sugar shack.

Walking a nature train in Mississippi Mills, I captured this dramatic sky with my smartphone.

As I said, I stayed in a lot over the winter months, pulling out old slide images, digitally scanning them, and enhancing them with Luminar AI. Of all the shots I experimented with, this one has to be my favourite.

My smartphone is always on me. And with it, I can stop at any time to capture an image. One day, in the spring, I was driving home from Manotick when I could see a storm coming in from the north, across a barren farmer's field. Because of the dramatic contrast with the clouds and the ground, I couldn't resist pulling over and snapping some images before the raindrops fell.

May in Ottawa means it's time for the Tulip Festival. I decided to use the blossoming flowers to practice Bokeh photography.

While photographing the tulips near Dow's Lake, I also took the opportunity to cross the road to capture the pavilion on the lake. At that time of day, the sky was getting dark and it looked like rain. If I held my camera at a certain angle, the darkness of the reflected sky on the water made for interesting negative space.

It seems that my smartphone is very good at capturing dramatic skies. Back in Plantagenet, I captured this sunset sky.

One of my favourite places to capture sunset is at Andrew Haydon Park, along the Ottawa River. And while I captured a lot of images, one evening, with my D-SLR, this one, shot with my smartphone and with white balancing applied, was my favourite of the shoot.

My energy levels were very low, this year, and I found it almost impossible to get up early. Yet, on the morning of the solar eclipse, I got up early and headed to the Portage Bridge, over the Ottawa River, just west of Parliament Hill. And while the eclipse was great to see, photographing the sky before sunrise was even better.

With the pandemic still ongoing, gatherings with my Ottawa Photography Meetup group was a challenge, and the organizers limited events to outdoors only. In a group of five photographers and one model at a remote farm, past Winchester, the risk was at a minimum, as everybody was vaccinated and we kept our distance, out in the farm fields. Furthest from us all was our model, Kate Snig. My favourite photo of the shoot was of Kate, under a pumpkin patch. In post production, I added a stormy sunset sky, complete with lightning. I called the shot Gimme Shelter.

I've only been downtown a couple of times in 2021. On one trip, I wanted to capture sunset from behind the Centre Block on Parliament Hill. My visit didn't disappoint.

And when I did get downtown, I found it hard to pass up an opportunity to photograph one of my favourite statues in the city, Maman (sorry, BC). DW and I went to the National Gallery to capture the fireworks for the Sound of Light show, and I thought the giant spider and the gallery's Great Hall to be a perfect foreground.

For this year's Thanksgiving weekend, DW, my parents, and I decided to go to Toronto to visit our kids, who are studying in the GTA, and my younger sister, who also lives in the big city. It was a beautiful weekend, full of memories that will last a lifetime, and there were also some great photo opportunities, during the day and at night.

A couple of years ago, I purchased a glass orb to take some optical-effect photos, but I don't use it that often because it's just under the size of a baseball and weighs a lot. But I did dust it off and take it with me to Vimy Memorial Bridge on the eve of Remembrance Day to capture some sunset images of the bridge. Here is one of my faves (the image is upside-down so that the bridge appears right-side up through the orb).

I even carried the orb to Cuba, and though I only used it once, it was worth lugging the ball in my jacket pocket. I'm not going to share that image in this post: though it's a nice shot, it's not one of my better images this year.

But I did use the orb once again, on Christmas Eve, while I strolled around the Christmas displays at Lansdowne Park. Though I took this photo after I had originally written this post, I've added it as a late entry. I like the image of the candy canes in the orb (again, the photo has been turned upside-down) with the bokeh effect of their lights, due to a wide f-stop (f/2.8). I really need to rig a stand for the ball, as I find it hard to hold it with a steady hand, hold my D-SLR with the other hand, and attempt to maintain focus inside the orb.

And speaking of Cuba, here is my favourite shot of that vacation. DW and I spend so much time on this beach: swimming, snorkelling, sailing, and lounging. This beach will always give me a sense of calm. (More on Cuba, next week.)

Finally, I have found that through this pandemic, you don't need to go far to find a photo opportunity. Without leaving my home, I found lots of action at the bird feeder in my backyard, and I didn't even have to step outside to capture the finches in a feeding frenzy. I just needed a clean window and my telephoto lens. You saw these photos on Wednesday, but this one's my favourite of the bunch.

I didn't go on as many photo outings this year as I typically do, but I'm glad for the opportunities I took. I'm hopeful that 2022 will open more chances to get out there and pursue the hobby that I love so much.

Thanks for following and have a Happy New Year!

Most Popular Posts of 2021

I'm trying something new at The Brown Knowser. Tomorrow, as I have done every December 31 over the past 10 years, I'll be posting what I feel are the best photographs that I've shot over the course of this year. These photos are purely subjective and are based solely on how I feel about the photos.

I hope, of course, that you'll like them, too.

Years ago, I used to post a recap list on Saturdays of what I had published during the previous week. It was a summary of what I had posted, and I learned that many readers visited those posts, rather than read the blog, daily, from Monday to Friday. These readers would see the summary and click whichever links interested them.

But today, I'm showing a list of blog posts that I've published over the year to the final week of December. This Top 10 list was chosen based on the number of views these blog posts have earned over the course of this year. Some posts garnered a lot of views in the first day or two after having been posted: others continue to be viewed as time goes on. In 2020, for example, the most-viewed post was published in 2018.

I often look at the analytics of my blog to determine which subjects my readers like the most and which ones are not as popular, and this can help me steer The Brown Knowser in a way that will hopefully appeal to you in the future.

I'm not including the most-recent posts, as they are still being viewed and may or may not earn a spot on this list. Going forward—if this idea goes forward, that is, I may make a list that runs from December of the previous year to the beginning of December for the current year.

If you've read these posts before and liked them, thank you. If you haven't read them already and are wanting to read more from The Brown Knowser, I hope this list will offer some direction on what to read next.

Think of this post as a recap of the year, but with only the best 10 posts, as determined by their popularity. Here we go...

10. Negative Space: This post was about one of my first attempts of a double-exposure shot, taken with my trusty Minolta X-700. The moon and church were on either side of me, and the resulting shot left for some interesting negative space that I filled with fireworks, this year, and placed in another post. Apparently, a lot of you liked this post enough to place it in the top 10 popular posts of 2021. Cool.

9. Two Days, Three Castles: I suppose a lot of people cancelled vacations during the pandemic. Perhaps, like me, you opted to travel vicariously. For me, it was a trip down memory lane. DW's and my 1991 trip to England and Wales had me falling in love with the Medieval period and old castles.

8. Naming That Tune: Who doesn't love the game of guessing the name of a song? I know I do, and apparently, so did a lot of readers.

7. Photo Funk: I was in a dark mood when I wrote this post. Perhaps many of you empathized or shared my funk.

6. The Bard's Town: The post that started off my recounting of DW's and my 1991 England and Wales trip, starting with a race from London to Stratford-Upon-Avon. Geez, now I long to be back in the UK.

5. Ticked Off: I had never been more sick for so long in my life. And with tick season still chugging along, many readers checked in to see how I fared through Lyme Disease.

4. A Sign: This is actually an ongoing saga. Books still fill my house. If you're interested in taking any, let me know.

3. Abbey in Ruins: The England-Wales series really received a lot of attention, but none more than DW's and my stop at Valle Crucis Abbey. The photos were enhanced, and maybe the one with the lavender sunset sky drew people to the post.

2. Under the Falls: I really didn't expect this post to be the one of the most popular of 2021 but I can see why. This is not an angle of the Rideau Falls that many people see. I was in my kayak, only a few feet above the surface of the Ottawa River. Seeing this post so popular, I guess I'll be headed back sometime in 2022.

1. Me, The Ginch: For some reason, the 2016 edition of my traditional Christmas tale got a lot of attention this year. It garnered enough views to appear in my Popular This Month section, on the right-hand margin, and once it was there, the readership exploded. Who knew that so many folks were eager for a Christmas story, but why the 2016 version? And why was it so popular this year, so much so that it is the most-read post this year?

For 2021, I made a few tweaks and hopefully improved the story. If you haven't seen it yet, give it a read (the link for this post points to the latest version).

So, what did you think? Do you have a favourite post that didn't make the top-10 list? Let me know in the Comments section.

Thanks again for reading The Brown Knowser!

Frenzy at the Feeder

Operation: Christmas

I first posted this story in 2011 and have made it my holiday tradition ever since. For its tenth anniversary, I've made some minor edits.

If you haven't read it before, I hope you enjoy it. If you have read it before, I'm hoping that you make it your holiday tradition in reading it again.

Merry Christmas and best wishes for a safe and happy holiday season!

At first, we did it out of excitement for the season and impatience, unable to wait until morning. Later, it became a game about how far we could go, about how much risk we were willing to take. It was a test in organizational skills and stealth.

In time, it would become a ritual.

The first time we crept from our bedrooms and down the stairs, anxious to see what Santa had left us, my younger sister, Jen, and I faced our biggest obstacle: each other.

"Go to bed," I whispered, not wanting her to make any noise, thereby arousing the attention of our parents, who had only a half hour ago, or earlier, had gone to bed after placing our wrapped gifts under the tree. Our older sister, Holly, was sound asleep, seemingly able to contain her excitement and curiosity, and able to wait until the morning.

The first time that Jen and I met on the stairs, we got our parents' attention: "Get into bed," my mother called from her bedroom, "or Santa won't come." Reluctantly, Jen and I returned to our respective rooms, giving each other the stink eye for having spoiled the other's plans at checking out the cache of presents.

Later that night, after I had deemed that everyone was fast asleep, I slowly made my way downstairs once again. I would pause on the stairs every time a step creaked, waiting to hear if anyone had stirred at the soft noise. It took a couple of minutes to reach the ground floor and sneak to our living room, where our Christmas tree stood. I had reached my destination without arousing suspicion.

I was a stealth machine.

A faint light illuminated the living room through our sheer curtains from the outdoor street lights, casting a twinkling glow off the tinsel and glass balls on the tree. My eyes, which had already adjusted to the darkness of my bedroom, could easily make out the outline of the tree and the mound of boxes and parcels underneath it. I saw the stockings, filled to bursting, hanging off the edge of the shelf of our wall unit—our house having no fireplace or mantle. I slowly approached the tree, making my way towards the light switch underneath the tree, the one that would light up the tree and give me a clear view of the gifts.

I was so busy moving quietly, using my eyes to the best of their abilities, making sure that I didn't trip over a present, that I hadn't used my ears to detect another presence. Coming into the living room, equally quiet, was Jen.

"What are you doing here?" I whispered.

"The same thing as you," was the response.

"You're going to wake everyone up," I complained.

"Not if I keep quiet," she said. "You're the one making all of the noise."

I knew that by continuing to argue, we'd wake the rest of the household. We dropped our voices to a barely audible whisper. "What should we do?" I asked.

"Want to turn on the Christmas tree?" Jen suggested.

"I was just about to do that," I said, "but only for a second." I was afraid that somehow the light would make its way out of the living room, up the stairs and down the hall, through my parent's closed door, and up to their shut eyes. Such was the paranoid logic of a young kid who was not where he was supposed to be.

Our family Christmas tree.

I reached for the switch and the tree sparkled in the warm glow of the lights. Jen and I let our eyes wander over the packages and the brightly patterned paper, trying to see through the wrap and trying to discern the gift by its shape. We kept the lights on for only a couple of seconds, and before we felt that we could run further risk, we immersed ourselves once again in darkness.

We decided that it was too great a risk to remain downstairs any longer, so we agreed to return to our rooms. We further agreed that we shouldn't try ascending the stairs at the same time, so Jen went first, and when I knew that she was safely in her room, I made my way to my own.

Operation: Christmas was born.

The next morning, as Jen and I sat in our living room with our older sister and our parents, we gave each other a smiling look, silently communicating that we shared a little secret, that we had gotten away with a reconnaissance of our haul of gifts. No one else in the room knew what we had done. We had gotten cleanly away with this act.

Leading up to the following Christmas, Jen and I privately discussed going downstairs to take another sneak peek at the gifts under the tree. But this year, we agreed that we would be more organized. We synchronized our clocks so that we would have our rendezvous better-timed. Also, with the mystery of Santa Claus pretty much worn out on us, our parents told us that they had decided that they would put our stockings at the end of our beds before they went to bed themselves. They told us that if we were to awake to our stockings in our rooms, it would buy them a little more sleep by keeping us occupied with oranges, small toys, and other treats.

Before that Christmas Eve, Jen and I had decided that when our folks came into our rooms to put the stockings at the end of our beds, we would feign sleep. We would listen for them retiring to their own room, and then we'd wait a half hour. We would then give each other an additional 15 minutes to go through our stockings and check out our haul.

And then it was showtime.

We would quietly step out of our rooms and wait for the other to show up in the hall. We would then head down the stairs together. In the weeks leading up to the big night, we would make a note of the squeaks in the steps and either place our foot on a side of that step that didn't creak or, failing to find a safe spot, avoid that step altogether. We memorised the walking pattern, going up and down the stairs until we got it right. We were confident that we wouldn't make a sound on our way to and from the tree.

In the second year, I brought a flashlight. We would still turn the tree on so that we could marvel at the packages underneath, but would use the flashlight to better read the writing on the packages to find which of the gifts belonged to us.

On our way back up, we heard a stirring from my folks' room. We froze. We didn't know if one of our parents had simply moved or was on their way to investigate some sound we might have made. We stood, halfway up the staircase, remaining silent and motionless until we deemed it was safe to proceed.

That was year two.

In the years that followed, we continued the tradition. Jen and I got more sophisticated. We drew maps of the upper and ground floors, marked out a plan of where who should be at what time. We ran drills when we were home alone. Operation: Christmas became a finely choreographed exercise.

We became emboldened: we'd turn the lights on the Christmas tree and leave them on for as long as we were downstairs. We'd stay longer, counting up our presents and figuring out what each one was, based on what we had asked for versus the size of a package. We would get ourselves a snack from the kitchen and eat it, surrounded by wrapped boxes.

In our teens, we would unwrap the gifts, confirming what we suspected the package to be. If we could further remove the gift from it's casing or box, we'd do it. We'd play with our stuff. And then we would carefully re-wrap the present and put it back where our parents had arranged it. Some Christmases, we'd return to our bedrooms, knowing exactly what we we would be getting, for real, in a few short hours.

The thrill of Christmas morning came in the form of feigned surprise, both of us doing our best at keeping from laughing out loud. Sometimes, Jen and I couldn't make eye contact for fear of bursting out in hysterics.

We also enjoyed the surprise of seeing what our sister, Holly, had received under the tree. The thought of unwrapping her gifts during our operation wasn't even a consideration. Touching Holly's presents was clearly taboo.

Operation: Christmas went on for years, until Jen finally moved out of the house. Even though she was younger than me, she flew the coup first. Our game was over. I never went to check on the presents by myself. Operation: Christmas wouldn't have been the same without a partner in crime.

When we became adults, Jen and I confessed our crime. Our parents wouldn't believe us. They couldn't accept that we would have the capability of pulling off such a caper, that we'd be able to unwrap gifts, play with the toys, and put the presents back together. Not without our parents detecting anything was amiss. Jen and I just looked at each other, smiled, and shared our memories in silence.

For us, the magic of Christmas includes our scheme. For me, remembering Operation: Christmas was a ritual that brought me closer to my sister than any other game we played as kids during daylight hours. It was our special time together.

And isn't that what Christmas is all about?

Note: the photo that was used in this blog post was from a photo that I shot on the very last night that my sister and I carried out Operation: Christmas. I took this before going to bed, before starting 'the mission.'

The Secret Santa

First told in December, 2014, this Christmas tale is now a Brown Knowser holiday repeat. If you're new to my blog, I hope you enjoy it; if you've read it before, I hope that it puts you in the holiday spirit.

He never cared for Secret Santas in the office, or anywhere, for that matter. He didn't feel the need to pick a random name from a hat and then try to figure out something about that practical stranger (he just knew that, as luck would have it, he would pick the name of someone that worked in a distant part of the office, someone that he didn't know well), and he would then spend money and time choosing a gift that would not enrich the life of that individual, would not be something that would give that individual anything that he or she would truly want.

He used to participate in Secret Santa at work, feeling compelled by peer pressure. But over the years, he had become immune to peer pressure, would only participate in an office social activity if he truly wanted to.

And, usually, he didn't want to.

He wasn't a Grinch, nor a Scrooge, but especially, he wasn't a Secret Santa.

It was Christmas Eve and, as with every year, he did the bulk of his Christmas shopping at the last minute. He usually had an idea of what he needed to buy—his wife did most of the shopping for the kids and extended family members, and he needed only to focus on finding something for his wife, plus a few little things for the kids and some stocking stuffers for everyone in the family.

But one of the main reasons that he liked to shop in the stores on Christmas Eve was because he had worked retail in his youth, and he knew that there could be lots of stressed shoppers, lots of folks out there who treated store employees like crap, and so he liked to go in and be extra-nice to those workers, to try and make them feel appreciated.

He jokingly referred to the city's oldest shopping mall as the geriatric centre, as there was an abundance of grey-haired folks with walkers and canes, moving slowly through the corridors and spending extra time in the shops, looking to strike up conversations with the employees, form some sort of connection with a friendly face. For a short time, he had even worked in the bank branch in that mall, where he would spend more time just chatting with the seniors who paid a visit than actually conducting business.

That was fine: most of them were friendly, kind, courteous. The only time when he didn't like encountering seniors was a time when he wasn't working in the mall—it was when his kids were infants, and he and his wife would navigate the hallways and department-store aisles with a wee one in a stroller. He and his wife would constantly be held up, as the elderly would faun over the children, would reach out to stroke a smooth cheek.

"Please don't touch my baby," he would say, his voice flat, unemotional, but authoritative, before any contact could be made between old and new skin.

But still, he liked going to that mall. It had plenty of good shops that catered to a wide variety of needs and it was in a convenient part of town. And so, on Christmas Eve, as he was making his final purchases before heading home, he found himself in one of these stores, waiting in line behind a silver-haired lady who was using a wheeled walker for support as she tried to purchase a few items for her grandsons (as he understood from the conversation with the person who was trying to ring up the sale).

The senior moved slowly, her shoulders slumped from a busy day of shopping or perhaps from a lifetime of hard work. She seemed to be in no rush to finish her purchases, was content to idly chat with the saleswoman. The cashier, in turn, was friendly but purposeful: there were others waiting to tally their items, to move on to more shopping or to head home.

When the elderly lady's items were summed up, she opened her oversized purse, retrieved her wallet, and selected a credit card.

It didn't take long to learn that the credit card had been declined, as the point-of-sale terminal sounded a low beep and the saleslady grimaced. The elderly woman asked in a meager voice if the salesperson could try it again, and again, the card was declined.

"I don't understand," the woman said, "I've been using it all day." Indeed, an assortment of parcels and bags rested on her walker. She reached into her wallet and selected another credit card. "Try this one," she said, handing it to the cashier.

The second credit card was also declined.

Silence.

The woman dropped her head, her eyes moving back and forth in their sockets as she made mental calculations, tried to figure where she went wrong. Those shoulders, which already sagged, seemed to slump further in her perturbation. Her face denoted sadness, as though she might cry, as she came to terms with the possibility that her grandsons would not be receiving the gifts she had finally found for them.

The salesperson, meanwhile, looked at the man, patiently waiting, with an apologetic smile, unsure about how to deal with the woman who could not pay but who had not determined her next course of action.

The man was neither a Grinch nor a Scrooge, and though he wanted only to make his purchase and leave the mall, he also didn't want to see this frail lady leave empty-handed. It was Christmas Eve, after all.

He looked the salesperson in the eyes and mouthed, "It's okay, let her go. I'll pay for her." He held cash in hand to show that he was good for the amount owed.

"Really?" the salesperson whispered back, her eyes wide, finding it hard to believe that a total stranger would show such a level of sympathy and compassionate generosity.

He nodded. Smiled.

"Oh, it looks like we're good," the salesperson said to the woman after pretending to check the register again. "I guess our machine slowed down." She placed the goods in a bag and handed it over, the cancelled transaction slips in the bag. The senior loaded up her walker and began wheeling it towards the mall.

It had only been a thirty-dollar purchase. The man wasn't going to miss the extra amount that he paid. The old lady would likely discover what had happened after she was safe at home—if she bothered to look at the voided receipts, that is. Perhaps, she might not ever know.

If she had other shopping to do and tried to use those credit cards, she would discover that they couldn't be used. That would be a problem for her and the next salesperson to sort out. But at least she could bring her grandsons some joy.

Only the salesperson and the man would know what truly happened. On this Christmas Eve, for the first time ever, he could claim to be a true Secret Santa, anonymous and giving something truly desired.

And that was good enough for him.

Me, The Grinch

This blog post was originally posted on December 20, 2011, and has become a traditional Brown Knowser holiday tale. For 2021, I've cleaned it up a bit and brought it up to date, now that my kids have grown. If you have read it before, I hope you enjoy it again. If this is your first read, I hope it won't be your last.

© 1966 Warner Home Video.

All rights reserved.

On some level, I'm not a fan of Christmas. I'm not interested in decorating nor in sending out cards (actually, the Brown Knowser family has pretty much given up on that front), nor, especially, in heading to the stores to shop. I hate going near shopping malls and department stores at this time of year: fighting crowds, standing in lines, searching for that ever-elusive parking space.

Not being religious, the spiritual side of Christmas is lost on a cynic like me. Our family doesn't go to church or participate in rituals that have long ago been stolen from the Pagans. We have no manger on display, no angel on high, atop the tree.

My participation in these year-end, winter festivities usually includes some sporadic shopping, taking the family to a farm to search for and cut down our tree, and then driving it home, standing it in the house, and helping my wife with the lights and flashy, gold garland. Once that's done, I leave the room and let the three girls hang the ornaments while they blast music from the annual traditional Christmas CD.

Even as a kid, that tradition didn't interest me much. And, as my children grow older, as they now know that there is no Santa Clause, as they've even lost interest in going to a tree farm to seek out and cut down a family Christmas tree, this holiday seems to weigh heavier and heavier on me.

To understand how my view of Christmas has, over the decades, eroded, I have to go back to when I was in my mid to late teens, and then into my early twenties that really changed my views on Christmas.

For many years, I worked in retail. In late 1991, at the age of 16, my folks decided that it was time to wean me from my allowance, telling me that I was old enough to earn my own income. And so I got a job in a paint and wallpaper store in our local shopping mall. I worked there—and at a couple of our other franchise shops in two other Ottawa shopping malls—for four years, helping customers choose colours and patterns to spread over their walls. In some cases, I even offered my services in applying the paint or wallpaper, or both, for them. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, however, I witnessed my customers, who were generally easy to please, grow stressed as they frantically tried to get their houses in order in time for the holidays. Many left things to the last minute ("What do you mean? Latex paint needs thirty days to cure before I can hang wallpaper on it??").

I worked in the Merivale Mall off-and-on for more than 16 years, working at the paint and wallpaper store, a camera shop, and at a bank. And what I learned from my experience there is that I hate—absolutely HATE—the retail side of Christmas. I hated that on the very day after Hallowe'en (before Remembrance Day, for cryin' out loud!), the Christmas decorations went up in the mall, Santa's village began construction, and carolers strolled up and down the promenade. 

Christmas sales began. In the camera store, Christmas season officially ran from November 1^st to December 24^th. Mercifully, I've never worked anywhere that holds Boxing Week specials. But the weeks that followed Christmas were just as busy, as customers returned unwanted items (I probably hated that time of year even more than the pre-Christmas rushes).

Working in retail over the holiday season was an exercise in patience to the N^th degree. In the early weeks of the Christmas sales, people were generally in good spirits, though I honestly believe that these people were generally happy, well-organized individuals—they were, after all, getting their shopping done early. They were beating the crowds. They probably found parking in less than thirty minutes.

And they were in and out before the Jolly Old Elf made his appearance (the Santa at the Merivale Mall was a bald, cigar-smoking dude who always had dark, sagging bags under his eyes. I'd run into him, out of costume, in the corridors behind the shops; he creeped me out).

But as the big day arrived, people grew grumpy, stressed, and quick to anger.

On one Christmas Eve when I worked at the camera shop, in the last hour before we closed our doors, I had one guy tear a strip off me because the camera he wanted to buy was sold out. It was not surprising, as it was the hottest camera of the year and we had sold out days earlier. And yet he had expected to find it waiting for him.

That experience left me with an emotional scar. But it wasn't just the angry last-minute shopper in the camera store that had ruined Christmas for me. Not on his own. He was just the catalyst for that day. As I left the mall at the end of my shift, walking through the parking lot, I heard two men screaming at each other over a parking spot, both standing outside their cars, whose front ends where nosed up to the vacant space. As they prepared to come to blows, I piped up with a heart-felt rendition of Silent Night, which was met with an aggressive "Fuck off" and a "Mind your own business."

On the way home (I walked, by the way: at that time of year, walking was faster than trying to drive on Merivale Road), I decided to stop at a drug store to pick up some snacks and extra tape in anticipation of a night of wrapping gifts and visiting friends. When I lined up at the cash register, a man was screaming at the poor clerk, a young lady who was obviously not the manager or owner. I had, in fact, seen her behind  the counter many times before. She was always cheerful and polite, and was a good employee. Any retailer would want her on his staff. But now, she was almost in tears. I don't know what the man was screaming about, but it was obvious that this nice clerk had failed in helping him in one way or another. All I saw was a mean-spirited man handing out his rage on a tarnished platter.

And I got angry. This was no way to talk to anyone, especially on Christmas Eve. "Peace on Earth, good will to men," I said in a loud but cheery voice, trying to dispel the anger.

"Peace on Earth, my ass," the man said. Nice. "I bought the wrong batteries and this girl won't take them back." He waved a package of Duracell AAs, the cardboard torn, the package opened. Perhaps, even, the batteries tried? I understood: the clerk couldn't take the batteries back because he had opened the package. The batteries could not be returned to the shelf; no one would buy a pack of opened batteries. At the camera shop, we had the same policy.

"But you opened the package," I said. "Of course, you can't return them."

"Why don't you mind your own business?" the man spat at me. Other customers came to the line and, to my relief, they seemed to take the clerk's side. "Why don't you give the girl a break?" said one. The disgruntled customer screamed some more obscenities at the poor girl behind the counter, promised to never shop there again (much to the clerk's relief, I'm sure), and stormed out.

It was probably at this moment that I came to the decision that I hated Christmas. That is to say, I hated the consumerism side of it (insert the soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas here). In the evolution of the holiday, we have placed the material above the ideal—the spirit, if you will. In my remaining years in the Merivale Mall, I learned to dread the Christmas season because it always stirred  memories of this day. Of the hostility and rage from the last-minute shopper, the parking foes, and the disgruntled idiot who didn't know which batteries he needed.

I hate Christmas shopping. I try to avoid it. But with a family, that's hard to do. And so I try to get it out of the way as painlessly as possible. I'm not an early shopper, but I have most of my purchases before the last minute. I leave little things to the last minute—things that, should I be unable to find, I really don't care. And I'm always polite with the retail workers. I always have a smile, I always have something nice to say. If a retailer cannot help me find what I'm looking for, I don't hold it against him or her. I never complain.

I think everyone should work a mandatory year in retail so that he or she can empathize with the clerks that do this day in and day out. It's not easy dealing with a public that hasn't walked in a retailer's shoes.

So what does Christmas mean to me? From the day that I walked home from the drug store, Christmas has meant only one thing: time. Time with family and friends. Time to appreciate what I have. Time to be the best that you can be to others.

Worst Christmas Ever

We thought that the Christmas of 2020 was the worst one. We were well into the second, great wave of the coronavirus and nonessential travel was restricted. Governments and healthcare experts were urging us to limit gatherings to the people with whom you resided.

Lots of people, sadly, ignored these warnings, driving the number of positive COVID-19 test results through the roof. People who heeded the warnings and kept to themselves lamented that Christmas Day was the worst in living memory. People who didn't heed the warning lamented that spreading their germs, possibly killing loved ones, made Christmas 2020 the worst, ever.

For me, Christmas 2020 was disappointing. Our family tradition is to have our extended family members visit us for a lavish brunch of potato and bacon pie, spiral ham, cheesy scrambled eggs, orange and spinach salad, and Christmas stollen. In 2020, no one was invited over.

Instead, DW and I still baked the pie, and DW made her delicious stollen. Instead of roasting a ham, we bought a smaller ham and cut cold, thin slices. We packaged individual servings of each of these and I delivered these helpings to my parents and my sister, both who live nearby.

For those of you who feel that Christmas 2020 was the worst ever, hold my beer.

I was 25, was of an age where the Christmas break was a time to get together with friends, to socialize from house to house, from pub to pub. I was still living with my parents because I was attending university but had my own car and was enjoying my young independence. My girlfriend was going to be away for the holiday, would be with her parents, visiting with extended family in another part of the country, but I could look forward to her return in time to ring in the new year.

But this Christmas wasn't going to be the same for me, was not going to give me the independence that a young adult craves.

Photo: CTV News Ottawa

From my mid to late teens, I had a degenerative condition with the bones in my feet. Diagnosed as Köhler's Disease, I was referred to a surgeon who was renowned for his treatment for this potentially debilitating disease. Surgery, I was told, was my only option for dealing with Köhler's.

A date was scheduled, and I was told that I would be spending a week in the hospital and several months on crutches, afterwards. Unfortunately, the date of the surgery was not appealing. It was December 22, with my check-in to be the afternoon before. If all went well, I'd be out of the hospital and back at home on the twenty-ninth.

I had to get my Christmas celebrations out of the way by the twentieth. And there was a chance that I wouldn't be partying on New Year's Eve. Only time would tell.

I have very few memories of the surgery. I remember waking up early in the morning, feeling hungry, because I wasn't allowed to eat for the 12 hours before the operation and had only a sip of water before midnight, before going to sleep.

A gurney had been brought into my room and I was asked to make myself comfortable before I was rolled through the halls, into an elevator, and to the operating room. My surgeon and a handful of assistants were awaiting me, and a mask was placed over my face, from which I was given anesthetic gas. The previous day, the anesthesiologist offered to freeze me from the waist down and set up mirrors, so that I could watch the procedure.

"No thanks," I said, "knock me right out."

With the mask secured, I was told to count down from 10. Only 10?

At about 7, I heard someone say "oops."

"What do you mean, oops?" I said, but I was out before I could hear an answer.

In the recovery room, my memories are more like dreams. I remember lifting the oxygen mask from my face, only to have a nurse put it back in place. Again, I removed the mask, and again the nurse put it back on me. On the third time that I lifted the mask, the nurse didn't respond. But after a few seconds, I found myself putting the mask back on, myself, and drifting back to sleep.

My next memory was finding myself back in my hospital room, where a doctor, nurse, and a couple of orderlies were transferring me from the gurney to my bed. I remember seeing a plaster cast, smeared with a bit of dried blood.

As soon as I was in bed, the orderlies helped shift sheets and get me comfortable, but at one point they sat me up. The pain was so intense that I vomited and passed out. I didn't wake up again, to my knowledge, until the next morning, when breakfast was brought to me.

It was December 23. My girlfriend, who was leaving later that day for the airport, came by after breakfast for a short visit and to drop off a Christmas gift. A Calvin and Hobbes anthology.

I loved Calvin and Hobbes. Though my girlfriend and I had been dating for less than two years, I told her that I would love to have a kid like Calvin. I'm surprised that, upon hearing that, stayed with me. That girlfriend is now DW.

I was in a room that had three beds but was only occupied by me and an elderly gentleman, who had slipped on ice and had broken his hip. He was a friendly and talkative man, originally from Newfoundland, and we had enjoyed each other's company and conversation on the day before my surgery and on the days afterward. But as much as we enjoyed chatting, we also respected each other's privacy and would give each other a break, when I would turn to the comic book.

Perhaps Calvin and Hobbes wasn't the best gift for someone recovering from surgery. In his work on my foot, the surgeon had removed bone from my hip to graft onto the bones in the foot. My hip was incredibly sensitive—it's what made me pass out when I was sat up. And in reading the comics, I would burst out laughing one moment, burst into tears the next and yelping out in pain.

In laughing, my shaking would cause me jolts of pain that radiated from my hip and ravaged my body. Pleasure, meet pain!

On Christmas Eve, I had few visitors. My parents dropped by in the morning, but because they were hosting Christmas dinner, they had some errands to run and my mother had lots of cooking, baking, and cleaning to do. In the afternoon, my roommate was given permission to leave the hospital, so that he could enjoy the holiday with his family. I was alone from mid-afternoon until after dinner.

With my Calvin and Hobbes anthology finished, I turned to the magazines that my folks dropped off. But I was bored, already missed the conversation of my roommate, and my skin under my cast was itchy. A pretty nurse came to my room and asked me if I'd like a sponge bath, and I happily accepted.

Sadly, she brought in a middle-aged intern, a man, to attend to me.

Just before I was about to turn off my light and go to sleep, my girlfriend's best friend, Catheleen, drop by to check on me. With her, she brought some Christmas baking and a present—a 12-piece Sesame Street puzzle. We put it together in less than a minute, took it apart, and built it again.

Catheleen and I knew each other before I knew DW. As the younger sister to a friend of mine in high school, I often saw her wandering the halls, between classes, and we would always say hello. Years later, when I was dating DW, I learned that my future wife was often with Catheleen, but I never paid her any attention (they were minor niners when I was in grade 12).

In the first summer that DW and I dated, she went to Europe with another friend and Catheleen invited me to go with her to Cancun, Mexico. Catheleen was like a sister to me.

With visiting hours over, Catheleen wished me a Merry Christmas and I was alone once again.

I awoke on Christmas morning with a new gift. A patient, in the bed next to mine, had a leg suspended, several rods running through it, holding broken bones together. He was not in the mood to talk, as he had endured a bad skiing accident and was upset that he had to spend Christmas in the hospital, next to a stranger. Ski season had just begun and it was already over for him.

All of my reading material was read before lunch. In the afternoon, with visitors for my neighbour piling into the room, I asked a nurse to draw my blinds closed and I immersed myself in my Sony Walkman, with the stack of cassettes and mixed music.

I didn't get any visitors until mid-afternoon and it was brief. My parents came to wish me a Merry Christmas, but they had to get back home to receive guests for dinner. I had no more visits that day.

I was stuck in the hospital for a full week, finally able to return home, where my folks helped take care of me until DW returned.

So if you think Christmas of 2020 sucked, I can beat that.

Let's hope that Christmas 2021 is much better.

Warp Factor Tree

I originally called this photo my "exploding tree" because it looked like energy was being violently emitted away from our Christmas tree's core.

"Warp speed" sounds friendlier, given the time of year.

I can't remember what year I took this photo, but it must have been in the mid to late 1980s. I was experimenting with zoom exposures, where you change the zoom factor of the lens while the shutter is open. My Minolta X-700 was mounted on a tripod and I used a cable release for the shutter, which was set to Bulb, which meant that it would stay open for as long as I had decided (that is, counting the seconds in my head).

Keeping as steady a hand as possible, I carefully and steadily twisted the lens to move into the tree, making the lights seemingly move at the speed of... um... light.

Of course, I wouldn't have learned whether the shot worked or not until about a week or so later, when I received the processed slides from the lab.

I found this 35mm slide among others, and remembered the night that I shot my parent's living room, on the last Christmas where my younger sister and I carried out our year-long tradition, Operation: Christmas.

I'll share that story, as I do every year, this Friday.

The image in this post was digitally scanned from a slide and enhanced with Corel PaintShop Pro 2021, with the contrast increased and the colour saturation boosted just a bit, to make up for the loss that occurs with scanning.

On Vacation

Sunset in Cuba, from our 2017 trip.

Today, DW and I are away.

We have finally climbed aboard an aircraft for the first time since before the pandemic and gotten away from Canada. The last time we were on an airplane, together, was in April of 2019, when we were returning home after spending a week in the Mayan Riviera, celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary.

The last time I've flown was when I went to South Korea, in May, 2019, on my own.

But today, we have gone back to Cuba, where we'll spend the next week soaking in the warm Caribbean sun, snorkeling, swimming, relaxing, eating, and drinking.

I have to admit that at times, I didn't think this was going to happen. In the weeks—and then days—leading up to our departure, my stress levels have gone through the roof. I wasn't sure I wanted to board a plane. Wasn't sure if I'd be comfortable at a resort that would be filled with total strangers. I didn't want to be in a country where my Internet access was limited, where I'd be cut off from news outside my resort.

There were even times when my anxiety took over my rationale, when I would tell myself that I was going to bail on DW, was going to stay at home while she headed south. We have a friend who is joining us on this trip: let him keep her company.

But I've fought through my stress and we're now on our way. I'm hopeful that once we've touched down at the Holguin airport, have boarded the bus that will shuttle us straight to our resort, and have checked into our room, I'll feel better. We're there to be pampered, to de-stress, and to find some semblance of a normal, pandemic-free vacation.

Time will tell. A sunny beach won't hurt. Alcohol may help.

I'll have more to share after the Christmas holidays—probably, in January. There will be no new blog posts while I'm away but The Brown Knowser will return for my annual holiday posts, starting on December 20. If you follow me on Twitter, I'll also point you to some posts from the past throughout my absence, thanks to scheduled tweets.

With any luck, DW and I will have a safe and relaxing trip, accompanied by our friend. Fingers crossed that we test negative for COVID-19 or any of its variants when we're ready to head home. (We'll be as careful as possible: I don't even like to get close to strangers under normal circumstances.)

And fingers are also crossed that Ottawa isn't socked with a snowstorm before we return, leaving a huge mess in the driveway.

Happy Friday!

Beer O'Clock: Peanut Butter & Raspberry Shake

When DW and I were first dating, we decided to go for a cool treat at our local Dairy Queen, on Merivale Road, at Clyde Avenue. On this trip, we were with her best friend, Catheleen.

They were trying to decide what they wanted to order when they asked me what I was going to get. "Oh, I'll just get my usual," I casually said as I drove my Pontiac Sunbird toward our destination.

The girls took that as something mysterious, though it really wasn't. When I got up to the counter, I requested a chocolate milkshake.

Nothing special. I just like simple, chocolate milkshakes. I still make them, every once and awhile, at home.

The last time that I made any kind of specialty milkshake was a couple of years ago. I remember it well because I was making it to share with my kids. Searching the refrigerator, I pulled out fresh raspberries and a jar of peanut butter. I also added a banana and a squirt of chocolate syrup to the scoops of vanilla ice cream and cold milk.

It was pretty good, though my kids weren't keen on the flavour of the banana. Since then, I've stuck to making my usual.

Shopping in the LCBO, this past weekend, my eyes fell on a can of stout from a much-liked Ottawa Valley brewery, Whitewater. The red and creamy-gold label, with a classic diner-style milkshake glass, adorned with whipped cream and raspberries made me think of that day when I mixed a similar treat for my girls.

Well, not that similar.

Peanut Butter & Raspberry Shake (Peanut Butter Raspberry Stout: 4.5% ABV; 30 IBUs)
Whitewater Brewing Company
Foresters Falls and Cobden, ON

Appearance: deep walnut brown with a foamy, taupe head that pours thick but settles to a solid cap, and then to a dense lace. I poured it fast to attempt a whip-cream-like head, similar to the whipped cream on the label. It got a bit out of hand. Pour with care.

Nose: sweet, ripe raspberries with a hint of peanuts and milk chocolate.

Palate: milk chocolate, fresh raspberries, and a creamy peanut butter. Have you ever had Purdys Peanut Butter Fingers? They are made with the creamiest peanut butter that DW or I have ever had. They're magical. And the peanut butter in this stout reminds me of those. You get a silky peanut butter that fills the mouth, cut clean with the raspberries. The finish is both sweet and tart, with a kiss of cedar that lingers.

Even hours after finishing my pint, I felt that I could taste peanut butter in my mouth and was breathing it through my nose, though I'm sure the sensations were more psychological than physical (the same thing happens long after I've sipped a smoky and peaty Scottish malt). And the phantom taste and smell had me craving more.

Overall impression: this is not your average brew. It's a dessert. And it's a fine dessert, a wonderful treat. I've had peanut-butter stouts before and they've been heavy, rich, cloying, and hard to finish, and I was afraid that this stout would follow suit.

But it doesn't. The blend of raspberries and peanut butter marries well and makes this easy to drink. Neither flavour overpowers. As I said, the raspberries are fresh and sweet, and the peanut butter is creamy without sticking to the roof of your mouth.

For a specialty stout, it's an indulgent treat. Just like a milkshake.

Beer O'Clock rating: 🍺🍺🍺

Because it's the holiday season, you should treat yourself. Indulge. Be decadent. Peanut Butter & Raspberry Shake is available in the LCBO and can be ordered online from the brewery for delivery in Ontario and the rest of Canada (free delivery to the Ottawa area!).

I'm sure that if I had ordered a peanut butter and raspberry milkshake, all those years ago with DW and Catheleen, they wouldn't be laughing at my usual Dairy Queen go to.

Cheers!

A Bird in the Hand

We enticed her out with the promise of fantastic scones.

Thing 2 (our younger daughter: I'm not sure if the new nickname will stick) doesn't like to get out of bed before noon if she doesn't have to. Most of her classes at university aren't until the afternoon, or are late in the morning, mostly because she's studying music and performance jazz, and most of the students hone their skills by performing in music halls, often until the wee hours of the morning.

Sometimes, she doesn't get back to her campus residence until about 3 am.

When she was back home for her reading week, in November, Thing 2 didn't go out to all hours but she did still like to sleep in. She often skipped breakfast, having her first meal at lunchtime.

When DW and I wanted to head out to Mud Lake to search for an owl and to photograph the ducks and other birds, we planned to cap off our hike with a stop for breakfast at The Beachconers Microcreamery. We knew that we wouldn't be able to entice Thing 2 with a hike in the woods, even though she likes ducks and has never seen a wood duck up close, so we tempted her with a chai latte and a scrumptious scone, and she agreed.

We promised that we'd bring some bird seed, to attract the small birds—the chickadees and nuthatches—but we actually forgot to pack a small bag with us in our haste to get out the door. And yet, that didn't keep these birds from getting close to us to see if we had anything for them.

Thing 2 was disappointed, as she wanted to hold her hand out with seed, wanted to have birds alight on her palm. At one point on our walk, she held out her arm in an attempt to show us that she was going to miss out holding a bird.

That's when a chickadee landed on her empty hand. It perched itself for a moment, looking at her hand, wondering where the food was. When it deemed that it wasn't going to get a seed, it fluttered off.

Immediately after it left, a nuthatch landed in the chickadee's place. It looked at the empty palm, looked at Thing 2, looked at her palm again, and then flew away.

I pulled my camera to my face. "Keep your hand out."

"Dad, they've figured it out. They won't come back."

"Just hold the pose for a few more seconds," I said. "Let's see what happens."

The birds came back but wouldn't stay for long. I had to be quick with the shutter release. And, eventually, the birds caught on that seeds would not be forthcoming and they sought out other hikers.

Thing 2 was quick to remind us that she was along for the scones, so we continued on our hike and finished up with the wood ducks, which she loved to see.

She loved the scones even more.