My Favourite Photos of 2022

This year was one where my number one hobby seemed to be placed on the backburner. My D-SLRs almost gathered dust for the first two months of 2022. But there's that adage that says the best camera is the one you have with you, and I always had my smartphone on me, so I never really missed a shot.

For 2022, I've decided to limit my annual collection of favourite shots to only 12 photos—one for each month. To that end, I've kept track of all the photos that I have taken throughout each month and have only picked one from that group.

By looking at each month, this post is also my year in review.

One of the first photos that I shot in 2022 happened when I was sitting on my butt, in my favourite chair, watching "The Circle" with DW and Kid 2. It was January 2, and our orchids—for which we had been caring for a couple of years, with success—were resting on the window ledge beside me, just in my peripheral line of view.

We have two pots of blooming orchids: one, pink; the other, white, which was almost in full bloom with 10 flowers opened up. The white orchids were just to the left of and slightly above my head, and I turned to admire them between episodes. They were in a partial silhouette and I had an idea for a photo, to have the petals in monochromatic shadows but to illuminate the labellum with just a hint of colour. I reached for my smartphone and took the shot, and then edited it in Snapseed to get my desired result.

I was happy with the outcome, so much so that even at the beginning of 2022, I knew that it would make the list of my favourite photos of the year.

In February, DW and I weighed the risks and decided to go to Mexico. We were triple-vaxxed, wore snug-fitting KN-95 masks when we were in enclosed spaces, and avoided close contact with people while we were there. Further to keeping our distance from others, we spent most of our time snorkeling in Akumal Bay. To our joy, there are beautiful coral reefs with all sorts of tropical fish and grassy spaces where sea turtles come, year-round, to graze.

While there is no guarantee that we would actually see any sea turtles, we happened upon a juvenile turtle on our first day and we saw the same one, again, on our last full day at the resort. Because I always swam with my 360-degree camera in hand, I was able to extend the selfie stick and get a closeup shot without getting up in the creature's face.

It was easily my best photo of that vacation and of the month. I didn't even bring a D-SLR to Mexico, choosing instead to rely on my smartphone and 360 cameras to record images.

I have no regrets.

March was a pretty dry month for photography. First of all, I rarely left the house. It was the first month of 2022 when I pulled out my D-SLRs but even then, I only used them a couple of times.

The first time was on my birthday and I decided to also pull out my soft box with a speedlight, and I practiced taking self portraits. One of the photos is now used as my profile shot for this blog.

The only time I really left the house and ventured outdoors was on the last Sunday before the mask mandate was lifted. DW and I went for a brunch on Elgin Street, and afterwards we went for a Centretown stroll. With only a 50mm lens on my D750, my angle of view was somewhat limited but I managed a few good shots: the best one being of the post office at Elgin and Sparks Street.

In April, DW and I began a ritual of starting our Saturday mornings with a walk around Mud Lake, along the Ottawa River, near Britannia. Some mornings, I carried my Nikon D7200 with my 70–300mm zoom lens, with which I would capture some of the birds and other wildlife. Other mornings, I just went for the walk, leaving my heavy D-SLRs at home.

On one foggy morning, I arrived with only my smartphone. While, at the time, I kicked myself for leaving a better camera at home, I was still able to capture images of the beautiful fog that blanketed the lake. I had a couple of favourites from that morning but I think the best of them was the one that was shared on the CBC evening news, during the weather photos segment.

In May, I became more active. I got on my road bike and cycled all over the city, including a 70K ride to raise money for CHEO. But May is when the flowers bloom in Ottawa, and I took advantage of the Tulip Festival to capture some images. I have a couple of favourites but if I've challenged myself to one photo for the month, this one would have to be it.

June was a bit of a slow month, in terms of photography, though I did get out for one of my photography group meetups, at Britannia Beach. And surprisingly, my favourite photo from that get-together wasn't of any of the models who participated: it was the sky, after the shoot and after a rain shower that caught my attention.

(I just want to add that the models were just great, too. You can see some of my photos from that shoot here.)

I didn't touch either of my D-SLRs in July, thought I was pretty active. Summer was in full swing, and DW and I were out with out kayaks as often as possible. I took several photos and shot some video on those outings, but it was an evening walk, along the Rideau Canal, on Canada Day, where I captured some lovely blue-hour photos with my smartphone. My favourite photo of that walk was taken as we walked past the Pretoria Bridge.

Fun fact: DW's dad used a crane to drive the iron beams into the bed of the canal, as part of the construction of this bridge.

My D-SLRs saw little action in August, though I did use one of them a couple of times: once, during a walk from Andrew Haydon Park to the harbour at the Nepean Sailing Club, and again for some fireworks, as part of the Sound of Light show. But when I look back at those photos, nothing really stands out for me. I could hardly call any of my shots a favourite.

But on one evening, during a walk that DW and I took through Beryl Gaffney Park, we came to a point where a runoff of the Rideau River met the Long Island Dam, at Nicolls Island. The sun was setting and the sky was dramatic, and I only had my smartphone on me. But as they say, the best camera is the one you have at the time.

I made use of that time.

September was a tough month in which to pare down one photo that I liked. In the last half of the month, DW and I were in Portugal, where I had both of my D-SLR cameras, my smartphone, and both 360-degree video cameras. In those two weeks, I recorded hours of video and took thousands of photos.

How can I choose just one?

There is one photo that as soon as I had snapped it, I knew I had a good picture, even though I was still under the influence of jet lag and I had consumed a couple of glasses of port wine. We were on the Gaia side of the Douro River, down at the river's edge, looking across to Porto. My Nikon D750 was clipped to the shoulder strap of my backpack and my D7200 was slung over my other shoulder, on its strap. Because it was fitted with my 70–300mm lens, I used it to zoom directly across the river, at the Cais da Ribeira, the riverfront promenade.

I filled my lens with the edge of the promenade and the buildings behind it.

"That's the shot," I told DW as I pressed the shutter release.

It's not the only good shot I captured of our trip but it's my favourite. You can see other photos in my Flickr album.

October saw me back outside, taking in the fall colours. I also attended another photography meetup, and this time, one of my favourite photos was of one of our subjects. Sophie just seemed so comfortable in front of the camera that it really was impossible to take a bad shot. This, however, is one of the best.

In November, Ottawa saw a lot of unseasonably warm days and we had great weather on most weekends. DW and I would meet up, a couple of times, with friends and walk some of the nature trails around the Ottawa region, including the Gatineau Hills.

A couple of days after our first snowfall, we decided to trek up to the Carbide-Wilson Mill, near Meech Lake. We've visited this old site many times before but have never gone up after snow has settled in to Gatineau Park. By the time we set out, most of the snow had melted but we were able to capture a bit of it. Here's my favourite shot from that morning.

I didn't leave the house very often in December. When I did leave the house, it was to run errands or to visit friends and family. In other words, I didn't take many opportunities to grab a camera and go out.

I did head out after our first snow storm, however, with camera in hand. DW and I wandered the Lime Kiln Trail, not too far from home. The power of the storm left a thick layer of snow covering one side of tree trunks along the trail, and the evergreens were still thick with the white stuff. But the ruins of the lime kiln had a lovely covering of snow and made for a good subject.

I thought that I would get no definition of the sky in my shot—just a white emptiness—and that I would have to replace it with an artificial sky, but in post processing I was able to recover the blown-out blue and the cloud.

(I did, however, add the sunrays in post-production.)

There's a lot of texture to the photo, and that's why I like it.

So those are my favourite photos of 2022. As always, I want to thank you for visiting my blog and giving me your support. I wish you good health and happiness in 2023. Stay awesome!

Most Popular Posts of 2022

I'm often pleasantly surprised to see, in my blogger stats, that people visit some of my older posts, some that I, myself, have totally forgotten about. With more than 2,400 posts over 11 years, I'm bound to forget a few of them.

I get that people delve into past posts. When I check out someone's blog, I don't just read the most-current entry: I'll often look at previous post to see how the writer has evolved.

Folks, a lot of you dug into my past over the year. So much so that at one point, I was inspired to re-create similar posts. Thank you to all of my readers. You're what keeps me going.

As with last year, I kept an eye on the posts that were the most popular over the year and in 2022, I got quite the shock. Some of the most popular posts weren't even written in 2022.

If you've read these posts before, I hope you enjoyed them. If you haven't, maybe take a look now. Here are the 10 most-visited posts of this year.

10. Low-Key Olivia: Yup, people liked the photos of Olivia Preston. And who can blame them? She's certainly captivating. And even though I limit the number of NSFW posts on my blog, they do seem to attract an audience. Olivia is one of my favourite models to work with: besides being drop-dead gorgeous, she's easy to work with and self-directs. And because we keep a conversation going throughout our time together, I've found her to be witty and engaging, with her smarts and humour. I can't wait to work with her again.

9. The Storm: It's no surprise that this post made the top 10 for 2022. The derecho that swept through Ontario and caused such widespread destruction was one of the biggest natural disasters to hit our region. And the video that we caught while we were experiencing it from within our vehicle doesn't do the storm justice.

8. Missing Studio Photography: Speaking of Olivia, folks also liked the post that I published in the same week, where I lamented the fact that the pandemic has kept me outside of the studio and has not only kept me from intimate photo shoots with my group, it's kept me from practicing shooting with studio lights, a skill that I have far from mastered. The photos of Olivia in this post didn't hurt, either.

7. One Last Time?: A few years ago, I had the privilege of visiting my old elementary school, as it was closing its doors, possibly for good (as a public school, anyway). But earlier this year, when I had the opportunity to revisit the school one more time to receive a booster shot for the COVID-19 vaccine, I couldn't resist another trip down memory lane. Whether other readers once attended Century Public School, in Nepean, or just liked a blog post that reminisced, this post was one of the most popular of 2022.

6. Closet Culling: Well, who doesn't like to see a cute kid in a brightly coloured dress? And while I'm glad that no one bemoaned cultural appropriation for my daughter wearing a Korean hanbok—a dress that a Korea friend passed on to DW and was delighted to see it fit our kid so well—I'm pleased to see that you enjoyed this post as much as you did.

5. No One But Ourselves to Blame: Of course, COVID is still a hot topic and the pandemic is still raging, nearly three years after it came to North America. When DW and I returned from our Portugal trip with the virus, I was very hard on myself, and many readers were sympathetic and wonderful to me on social media, immediately following the publishing of this post. Thank you for making me feel better, even though the virus made me feel like crap.

4. The Last of the Cold War: Written nearly 11 years ago, this Photo Friday post about my trip to Berlin, in 1988, had a revival this year. Whether it was sought out because of some of my Friday Fiction posts that centred around that time and place made readers curious enough to seek this post out (how many of you click any of the labels in my posts to go to other posts?). Whatever the reason, this was my third most-popular posts of 2022. Like my Grinch story and like the next two posts, the most popular published pieces weren't written this year (spoiler!). 

3. Me, The Grinch: Year after year, this post has continued to be popular, but for some reason, the version that I posted in 2016 seems to be the one that draws the most readers, even after I revamped the story, last year (the related link for this entry goes to the 2021 version). And once this post appears in the Popular This Month list (in the right-hand margin), the number of views tends to explode (perhaps readers are drawn to The Grinch?). I suppose Christmas is one of the most popular seasons of the year, and people like to read a holiday story that offers hope. Thanks for making this post so popular.

2. Revisiting a Popular Post: This post's popularity in 2022 surprised me, seeing that I originally wrote it in June of 2011 and re-posted it as a backup plan in August of 2013. The original post was a two-parter, whereas the repeat post, in 2013, had no continuation. Yet, it's the 2013 post that made a comeback in 2022 and became the second-most visited post. You should really visit Mind Flood and Mind Flood, Part Two to get the whole story.

1. The Secret Santa: Not only was my story of a good Samaritan the most popular post of 2022, it has now become the most popular post of all time, with the year-old post garnering more than 6,000 views in less than 48 hours over the Easter weekend, all because of my sharing the good deed of a grocery store manager, which reminded me of the time I also committed a random act of kindness. The Twitter thread that I wrote went viral, being shared hundreds-upon-hundreds of times by followers and strangers. In the thread, I ended with a link to The Secret Santa, and people visited the post in droves.

I found it truly overwhelming. It inspired me to write another post, Easter Surprise, in the same vein as The Secret Santa. I don't plan to turn my Easter story into an annual post, like my Christmas story, so I don't expect it to have the same visits.

Thank you to everyone who has visited my blog over 2022 and the previous years. Because of your support, I feel inspired to keep The Brown Knowser going for some time yet. I hope 2023 brings fresh ideas that will keep you coming back for more.

Cheers!

Birds in the Hand

Coffee, Anyone?

I don't expect this to go far but I thought I'd give it a shot. And my timing is awful, being right around the holidays, when there are charities that really need your support.

But I had thought of trying this for a couple of years, and every time I thought about it, I told myself to give it a try but would always forget, when I had a free moment, to implement it. Something else would occupy my head.

And, I also thought, it kind of sounds like begging.

I've opened a Ko-fi account.

For those of you who haven't heard of this, Ko-fi is a free platform upon which you can monetize yourself through donations (tips, as it were). The premise is that you are figuratively buying someone a coffee in exchange for a service that you receive. This service can be an actual product or it can simply be appreciation for something that a person shares, such as art, written work, photography, and more.

Over the years, I've supported fellow bloggers, photographers, and even comedians who share their jokes or skits through social media. I've also supported the creator and operator of my Mastodon instance.

The donations (tips) are figuratively represented through coffee. The account owner sets a price for a cup of coffee (the default is $5) and you can purchase as many cups as you like. You can even set yourself up to give monthly donations/tips/coffees.

The Brown Knowser is free: both my blog and my YouTube channel. But it does take time to create the content. I always hope to entertain or share knowledge and insights. On my Mastodon account, I share random daily photos, which many folks seem to enjoy.

Nothing says appreciation like a tip.

If you've enjoyed The Brown Knowser, show your love by buying me a coffee. I'll likely put the proceeds toward my Beer O'Clock budget, toward my videos (subscribing to sound/music providers), and other things that will improve my blogging and vlogging.

I'll give it a shot.

There's a link to my Ko-fi account in the right-hand margin (and the first link in this post). If you like my content, please show me by buying me a "coffee."

Thanks, as always, for your support.

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.

The Grinch That I Am

This blog post was originally posted on December 20, 2011, and has become a traditional Brown Knowser holiday tale. Over the years, I've cleaned it up here and there and have 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 the house nor in sending out greeting cards (actually, the entire Brown Knowser family has pretty much given up on that activity). Nor am I, especially, in heading out to the stores to shop. I hate going near shopping malls and department stores at any time of year, but I particularly loathe going out at this time of year: fighting crowds, standing in lines, searching for that ever-elusive parking space.

No, thank you very much.

Not being a religious person, the spiritual side of Christmas is lost on a cynic like me. Our family doesn't go to church nor do we participate in the rituals that have long ago been stolen from the Pagans. We have no manger on display, no angel on high, atop the tree.

In the past, my participation in these year-end, winter festivities usually included 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 was done, I would leave the room and let the three girls hang the ornaments while they blasted music from the annual traditional Christmas CD.

But over the years, the kids have lost interest in harvesting a tree, and in the past two Christmases, they didn't even want to help DW decorate it (last year, because DW and I had gone to Cuba a couple of weeks before Christmas, we were unable to find a decent tree that didn't cost a fortune, and we picked up a sad, two-foot tree that we stood on our dining-room hutch). DW strung lights around the house, alone, on Christmas Eve.

Even as a kid, the tradition of decorating a tree didn't interest me much. And, as my children have grown older and they now know that there is no Santa Clause, I see that their interest in this holiday has also begun to wane on them. I seem to have passed on my Grinchiness to them.

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

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. Over the past couple of years, I've started shopping online, avoiding bricks-and-mortar stores altogether. I used to leave little things to the last minute—things that, should I be unable to find, I really didn't care, anyway.

If I do have to venture into a store, I'm always extra-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.

The material aspects of the holiday don't matter to me. I don't need a tree. I don't need lights. I don't even need gifts (last year, apart from a stocking that DW stuffed for me, there was nothing under our puny tree for me, and that was just fine).

As long as I have family and friends, I think I can be Grinchy for everything else.

New Visitors

I have noticed, since I joined Mastodon, and especially since I joined the mstdn.ca instance, that the number of visitors to my blog has increased significantly.

Welcome, new readers, and thanks for stopping by!

A lot of viewers have been checking out many of my older posts—some that I had forgotten about completely. I hope you've enjoyed my rants and ramblings of years gone by. Toward the end of the month, I'll look back on the posts that received the most views of 2022, and I was surprised to learn that some of these popular posts weren't even written or published this year.

To all of my followers, thank you for your support and I hope to continue creating content that will entertain you.

Happy Tuesday!

Cheering for All

I had no skin in the game.

The Canadian soccer team was eliminated early on. I was happy that they made it to the World Cup Soccer tournament at all and was excited when they scored their first goal. Even though they were sent home early, they still did their country proud.

After that, I didn't know who to root for and to be honest, I kind of stopped watching the games. I'd pay attention to the matches by listening to sports reports and following the excitement of others on social media.

It wasn't until the final match, yesterday, between France and Argentina, that I thought I'd return to the Cup. But I didn't know who to cheer on.

Sure, it had been more than 30 years since the South American country had won the World Cup. And France had won the last time, was defending their title as the best team in the tournament.

But I'm neither French nor Argentinian, so as far as I was concerned, either team could win.

DW was different. She was fully behind Argentina. She wanted the win for this team, wanted the win for the team's captain, Lionel Messi, who had hinted that this might be his final World Cup match.

I cheered for both teams.

For me, it didn't matter what colour the jersey was. If someone made a great play, I'd get excited. I'd scream as a team moved in on a goal keeper, and I'd groan if a shot was missed, while at the same time applaud the keep for stopping the ball.

It frustrated DW to no end but I couldn't help myself. I just wanted to see a good game and I wasn't disappointed. France fought hard in the second half and came from a nil score to tie 3-3. Argentina never gave up and came on strong in the penalty kick round.

It was a well-earned victory.

I was happy for Argentina. I grieved for France but applauded their hard work and amazing goals. I could afford to cheer for both teams: as I've said, I had no skin in the game.

Oh, but what a game.

Late, Late Harvest

We didn't always get to eat the cherry tomatoes that we grew in our backyard.

I would sometimes see a berry, nearly ripened, and tell myself that I would pick it the next day, when it would be at its peak for taking. But when I went to the vines the very next day, some critter would have already gotten to it, either taking a few nibbles or plucking the entire tomato and making off with it.

When DW and I returned from Portugal, almost all of the fruit was gone from the plant by some animal or other. Only a few small, green tomatoes were left. But in the fall, we often forget about the vines for the season, figuring that we had harvested all that we were going to get.

DW would rip out the old vines, in the spring, when it was time to plant new ones.

I didn't see them until I was looking out in our yard, last weekend, as the snow was coming down. I wanted to venture out—perhaps to a forest or along a river bank—and photograph the freshly fallen snow, but my stomach was giving me trouble and I was tired, and decided not to stray far.

But as I gazed into the backyard, wondering if I should photograph something to capture the day, something caught my attention like the light in a beacon.

Two cherry tomatoes, still attached to the now brown and shrivelled vine. Once ripened, now shrunken like deflating balloons. Without changing into boots, I stepped out into the snow with my smartphone.

Not what I was thinking of capturing on that snowy day but I'll take it. Sometimes, you have to work to find a photo opportunity: other times, they come to you.

Happy Friday!

Beer O'Clock: Dark Series

I'm going to get a bit dark here. But in a good way. (For the most part.)

This is my last Beer O'Clock review of 2022. I've had a lot of good beer this year—no... scratch that. I've had some fabulous beer this past year. From a mind-blowing black currant cream ale to a tasty, peach-flavoured, non-alcoholic gose; from a selection of vintage ales with dear friends to a juicy, hazy pale ale; and from an ice-cream-inspired stout to a stout that was infused with roasted cocoa nibs, I've drunk well.

I even got drunk, once, while reviewing some beer.

My taste in ale styles has grown, as well, and I hope for the better. But when asked what my favourite style of beer is, I think I still have to say, deep down, it's still a good stout. I really love a good hefeweisen or saison, and I can never seem to get enough of the tropical pale ales, but my first true love continues to be the dark ales.

See? I said I'd go dark.

With the Christmas season breathing down our necks, many people in the beer, wine, and spirits business are cashing in with special releases—gift packs of their products. I look forward to cruising the aisles of my local LCBO, during the early parts of December, looking to see which brewery has packaged which of their premium or seasonal offerings that I can sample.

(I don't necessarily buy these gift packs to give to someone: they're gifts to myself.)

While most of the boxed sets of brews were brightly and festively presented, my eyes fell to a black cube that had the familiar, red logo of one of my favourite Canadian breweries. I haven't had a beer by McAuslan Brewing in a while and in particular, my favourite stout, and seeing a picture of it on the box made me want to pick up this Dark Series four-pack.

I have also already tried one of the beers in the box before, but there were two cans that I hadn't had yet—one, that I was eagerly looking forward to trying.

Let's take a look at the whole set, shall we?

I'll start with an old and beloved friend (I'm actually shocked that I haven't reviewed this stout before—or, at least, I couldn't find a review on The Brown Knowser or my old Beer O'Clock blog). And while I pride myself on a good flavour memory, this stout had me wonder if the brewery has played with the recipe.

St-Ambroise Oatmeal Stout (5% ABV; 45 IBUs)
McAuslan Brewing, Ltd.
Montréal QC

Appearance: a deep, dark brown that almost lends itself to black, with a taupe head that pours foamy to start and clings to the side of the glass, but reduces to a thin cap and then a tight lace.

Nose: smoky, roasted malts that almost seem burnt. There's also a dark-roast coffee aroma with which I'm familiar, but there is also a whiff of prunes that I don't remember from the last time I had this brew. Have I been gone from this oatmeal stout for so long that I've started confusing it with other dark ales?

Palate: the roasted malts are an immediate welcome on my tongue but I also detected more burnt flavours and a hint of licorice—something with which I attribute to an Imperial stout or a Baltic porter. Even thought there's only 5 percent alcohol in this pint, the flavour profile makes it seem headier than it should be. There's an acidity that made me think that I had opened the wrong can, but the photo doesn't deceive.

Overall impression: either my senses have deceived me, my memory has faded, or the brewers at McAuslan have changed the recipe of their oatmeal stout. But I have had other oatmeal stouts, not so long ago, and I know what to expect in this style of beer. And this, while still good, ain't it.

Just as a server once poured me a Guinness when I had ordered a St-Ambroise Oatmeal Stout and insisted that she had given me what I requested, I feel as though I'm being led astray with what I emptied from the can into my glass.

This was not the stout I was looking for.

If I'm to blame for my long absence from this stout, my opinion of it has changed. While I liked it, I no longer love it.

Beer O'Clock rating: 🍺🍺

I then had to go for the can that I haven't had before. It was a style of stout that gives me warm fuzzies every time I anticipate drinking one. When I first tried a milk stout, more than 10 years ago, I thought it was the best beer ever.

I still do.

St-Ambroise Milk Stout (5.5% ABV; 28 IBUs)

Appearance: dark-walnut brown with a medium-beige head that initially fizzed like pouring a cola and grew to an almost overflowing dome. After about 10 minutes, the head settled to a thin, solid, creamy cap.

Nose: hints of cocoa and a medium-roast coffee, but the aromas were shy in coming out.

Palate: a bitter coffee that approaches a sourness. Hints of cedar and toffee that carry to a lightly creamy and slightly sweet finish.

Overall impression: I had high hopes for this milk stout but there's something about it that was lacking from my expectations. While it's obvious that there is a milk protein that is added to the stout, there isn't enough creaminess to the flavour. The body isn't rich, and on subsequent sips I felt this stout was a bit watery—it's almost like expecting cream in your coffee but getting skim milk, instead. And the sourness made me think that the milk was slightly off.

I often associate chocolate-chip cookies with a milk stout, and there's none of that here. I'm sadly disappointed.

Beer O'Clock rating: 🍺 + .5

I'm going to be brief about the next dark ale from this four pack, mainly because I've had it before but also because it's name offends me.

Maybe offends is a strong word: it bothers me to the point of distraction. What does India have to do with this style of ale? WTF does the P stand for if it's a black ale??

There's nothing about this beer that resembles an IPA, in my opinion. What's wrong with simply calling it Black Ale and leaving it at that? That's what it is: nothing more.

St-Ambroise Black IPA (6.5% ABV; 58 IBUs)

Appearance: pours a root-beer brown, with a slight tinge of garnet red. The light-beige head starts foamy but settles to a thick, creamy cap. The oatmeal stout is darker, so I can't even call this ale black.

Nose: roasted malts and espresso coffee.

Palate: burnt toast and over-roasted coffee beans, with a bitter finish of orange peel.

Overall impression: this dark ale is really in your face with bitterness but that's all that it has in common with an IPA. The coffee and roasted malts are more in-line with an Imperial stout. I used to think that anything that McAuslan makes is good, but this is not very. I only drank half of it before putting it down the drain.

Beer O'Clock rating: 🍺

The final can in this release is a style that I have a healthy respect for but it's not really one that I choose to reach for. But I can still judge it fairly.

St-Ambroise Baltic Porter (8.2% ABV; 38 IBUs)

Appearance: pours a near black (more black than the so-called Black IPA) with a creamy taupe head that lays down as a solid cap.

Nose: smoke, burnt toffee, and prunes. None of these aromas is overpowering and the combination makes a pleasing bouquet.

Palate: the sweet prunes are forefront, followed by roasted malts and coffee. I was expecting a strong hit of licorice with the powerful alcohol, but I didn't get that. Instead, I got a bit of cedar and tobacco that provided a rich and lasting finish.

Overall impression: I was expecting to think that meh, another Baltic porter, but the flavours that I find tend to slap me across the face merely rested a warm hand on my cheek. There are a lot of classic flavours but they are somewhat tempered with the fruit characteristics of prunes. It's quite a nice Baltic porter. And though the alcohol level is high, it's not a boozy brew.

Beer O'Clock rating: 🍺🍺 + .5

Should you pick up the Dark Series four-pack for the holidays? I would suggest that you pick up some of the oatmeal stout (even though my memory tells me that the recipe has changed, it's still a decent brew) and treat yourself to the Baltic porter, but skip on the milk stout and black ale. They're okay but not worth the four-pack.

I said that this would be a dark post and I mainly meant for the beer, but I'm sorry to be so harsh on one of my favourite Canadian breweries. I expected a lot from this gift set and it let me down for the most part.

Whatever alcoholic beverage you go for over the holiday season, don't forget to drink responsibly and have a safe and happy holiday. I can't wait to see what brews are in the offering for 2023.

Cheers!