Sunsets and Silhouettes

I've gotta say, the last few evenings in Ottawa have produced some mighty fine sunsets.

Sadly, I've been too lazy to leave the house to find a nice place in which I can capture it. And last night, when we had a particularly beautiful ball of fire, diffused by a thin layer of cloud, I was sitting in the back seat of our CR-V, letting Kid 1 get some more practice in for her final driver's test, to get her G-level license.

That's today. Wish her luck (she'll nail it).

I still seek sunsets but there's a part of me that says, "You've captured so many, just sit back and enjoy them." I've become such a homebody since the pandemic started that it takes a lot of effort to head out in search of a new venue.

Last night, after returning home from Kid 1's last practice drive before her test, I was thinking of sunsets of old, when I was a young photographer, experimenting with my camera.

In my old age, I know it's wrong to climb up onto monuments. And even in my youth, there were structures that I'd never even think of clambering upon—the war memorial instantly comes to mind. But on this particular evening, on a Canada Day in the early 90s (possibly, 1992), with the sun falling low in the sky and the statues turning to silhouettes, I had to get a better vantage for my shot.

And so, I climbed up on part of the Peacekeeping Monument, on Sussex Drive, near the National Gallery of Canada.

I was with DW, who wasn't yet married to me, and our good friends, Bee and Marc. I have another shot from this evening of Marc beckoning for me to get down.

It's a shot that I'll never recreate because I'm older and wiser, and have a solid respect for all of our monuments.

(Plus, I'm too old to safely climb it... but that's besides the point.)

I'll head out for more sunset shots in the near future. Stay tuned.

Ross Ross

Ross is not my first name.

Many of you already know this. When my mother was carrying me, her favourite American actor was Gregory Peck, so naturally she wanted to name me after him. Or, at least, give me the same name.

But my mom and dad also liked the name Ross and planned to use that name as my first, with Gregory as my middle name. Only, Ross Gregory Brown didn't have quite the ring to it as Gregory Ross, and so that was what they named me.

Gregory Ross Brown. Yet, they called me, simply, Ross.

Of course, all of my government-issued identification bears either my full name or Gregory R. Brown, and so any time I receive correspondence from government agencies, it's addressed to Gregory Brown.

When I am at any medical facility where I have to show my health card, the receptionist swipes my card and generally directs me to "have a seat, Greg. Someone will be with you shortly."

I can forgive someone for calling me Gregory. I really take exception to being called Greg.

When I file my taxes, each April, I only fill out my name as Ross Brown on the forms. I've never had a problem. I always get my refund.

The other week, DW, Kid 1, and I received our voter registration cards in the mail. These cards tell us where we can cast our ballots in advance polls as well as on election day, which is this Thursday, June 2. When we received our cards, we stowed them in a safe place, to take them with us to vote.

On Saturday, the three of us decided that we would take a break from our chores and go to the advanced polling station in our neighbourhood. It was the first time that Kid 1 had voted in a provincial election and her second time voting, ever. It was also the first time that she came with her parents to vote.

DW grabbed our voting cards and we headed out. When we arrived at the voting station, she handed Kid 1 her card, kept her own card, and handed me my card. As I exited our car, I read the name on the card.

Ross is not my first name: it's my middle name. Except on this card, where Ross was both my first and middle name.

At the check-in table, I straightened it out. "I've been called worse," I told the woman who crossed my name of the list and handed me my ballot.

"It's so nice, your parents used it twice?" she countered.

So go ahead: call me Ross Ross. It beats Pinhead any day.

Don't forget to vote on Thursday, Ontarians.

After the Storm

We returned to Ottawa on Sunday, the day after the storm. We had light rain, off and on, and pulled into our driveway before 4:30 in the afternoon. Just over 24 hours after the storm blew in, knocked down trees, and killed power.

Sadly, it killed about 10 people, too.

We're thankful that our neighbourhood suffered little damage and that our family, friends, and neighbours are safe. Kid 1 was home alone and hid in the basement with our cats while the storm raged outside. She was in contact, by phone, with us as we finished setting up her sister's room, in Toronto. We chatted with her while she sat in darkness and we sat on a friend's rooftop deck, off the Danforth, in Riverdale.

But the next day, we were home with her, ever hopeful for the power to be restored quickly but planning for the possibility that it might be days.

Even without power, after the storm, sunsets in our 'hood were still special.

Happy Friday. Stay safe.

The Storm

When the ice storm of 1998 hit Eastern Ontario, DW and I were safely on the other side of the planet, in Chŏnju, South Korea. With this Southeast Asian country in the throws of its own economic storm, we battled something else, entirely.

At least we were safe.

We returned to Canada a few weeks later, after power had been restored to Ottawa and the only evidence of the devastation was seen in the broken stumps of trees, their branches and top halves long cleared away. Our family and friends, who were directly affected by that far-reaching storm, were safe and sound, warm and dry.

But even the intensity of that storm, 24 years in the past, couldn't match the intensity of the derecho that travelled from Windsor to West Québec in a single afternoon. Anyone who experienced the full brunt of the storm—the high winds and funnel clouds, the torrential rain, and the nearly golf-ball-sized hail—will remember where she or he was when it seemingly came out of nowhere.

The storm was five days ago but I can only talk about it now because my neighbourhood was without electricity for nearly four days. Our house had no Internet. We salvaged what we could pack into coolers and take to family that had power, but a lot of food became spoiled.

I will never forget where DW, Kid 2 (and her cat), and I were when the news of the storm came. We were on Highway 401, between Ajax and Pickering, on the outskirts of the Greater Toronto Area, heading toward downtown Toronto. We were moving our daughter to her new apartment.

Not much earlier than that, I had commented that we were heading toward some showers and that I hoped it wouldn't be raining while we were unpacking the U-Haul that we were towing. I didn't want any of Kid 2's possessions to get wet.

But as we left Ajax and entered Pickering, our smartphones sounded the alarm that indicated an impending storm and to seek shelter. Driving on the biggest and busiest highways in Canada, what could we do but keep an eye out? And ahead of us, the sky looked dark and fierce.

I remember seeing a man on a Harley-Davidson motorcycle pass us. Dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, I predicted that he was going to get a soaking.

Understatement.

By the time we reached Scarborough, a few minutes later, the storm was upon us and there was nowhere to go.

It started as a torrent of water, moving horizontally and dousing our windshield. Even on high power, it was hard to see. But almost immediately following, large hail began pelting our car. The sound was deafening and startled Kid 2 awake (she was napping in the back seat). Lily, her cat, who had also been napping next to her, dove onto the floor and tried to crawl under DW's seat.

I feared that our windshield would shatter at any moment. DW eventually captured some of it on her phone, after the worst was over.

Hazard lights on, speed greatly reduced, I looked for a place to pull over. We were close to an exit for collector lanes so I took it, as did several other cars, many that pulled over onto the shoulder.

Visibility was down to about 10 metres or so and I could see the wind was coming from several directions. I could see the water, which had accumulated on the road, was being blown back up in the air. Our CR-V was rocking from side to side and I could see that the U-Haul trailer was being pushed around.

I seriously feared that the trailer would be tipped over. In a later conversation, when I returned the rental to a U-Haul depot, the agent who helped me remove the trailer asked where I was when the storm hit. When I told him where we were, he asked, "Was the trailer empty?"

"If it had been," I told him, "you and I would be having a much different conversation."

Once in the collector lane, I saw a few vehicles stopped under an overpass and I joined them. But only briefly. There was still a high volume of automobiles moving, and some were driving erratically, that I worried that a large truck might drive into us. Whether that was sound reasoning or not, I decided that it would be better to keep moving than to be a sitting duck. I could see that the hail had stopped but the rain was still coming down steadily.

Out from the underpass, the rain wasn't so bad. I still had the wipers at full speed but I could see much better. We left the collector lane and returned to the express lane.

At the next underpass, we caught up to the motorcyclist, who had taken shelter. He was soaked, as I had predicted, and his bare arms were bright red. He was looking to be in some pain and would, no doubt, have welts and bruises later that day.

The rain came and went in intensity, and we worried that the hail might return, so we decided to get off the 401. DW found an IKEA near the exit and we parked in its garage while we weighed our options. DW and Kid 2 went into the store for a washroom break and to search for another set of bedsheets, while I comforted Lily.

I called Kid 1 and warned her to keep an eye on the weather. She was at home and alone with our other three cats. I also warned my Ottawa Twitter friends of what we had just experienced, for them to secure belongings, put cars in garages, and prepare for what was to come.

By the time DW and Kid 2 returned, the rain was light and the sky was no longer ominous.

We arrived at Kid 2's apartment with little incident and unpacked the trailer under rainless clouds. Miraculously, not a scratch nor dent was inflicted upon our Honda.

The devastation wreaked on Ottawa wouldn't be apparent until Sunday evening, when we returned home and saw the closed streets, felled trees, and darkened traffic lights. Our neighbourhood seemed to have minimal damage, save for no electricity.

I would be remiss if I didn't recognize and thank the people who reached out to me and my family to offer freezer and fridge space, a hot shower, food, a place to set up my work computer, with Internet, and to charge devices. It's heartwarming to see our community come together in times of crisis.

Thank you!

How did you fare? Where were you when the storm hit?

If you live outside the affected region or in another country, did you know about this storm? How did you hear about it? How did your local media present it.

Wherever you are, stay safe. If you're still without power, let me know how I can help.

This was the storm of all storms. I don't think anyone will forget where they were when it hit.

Tulips at Hog's Back

Flying the Coop

It had to happen eventually but time creeps up and suddenly springs something on you for which you're not quite ready.

When I was growing up and living with my parents, both of my sisters moved out when they were 17. It was a bit of a shock and my parents weren't quite keen on the idea, especially since they were still finishing school and were moving in with their boyfriends. It was tougher the first time, with my older sister, but I'm sure it still stung when my younger sister did the same thing, a few years later.

I stayed at home until I was 24. I moved back home, for a year, when I was convalescing from my first foot surgery. When I was 26, I moved out for good.

Last fall, when both our kids moved to residence at their respective universities, DW and I became empty-nesters. Sure, the house was still open to our kids, who returned for the holidays, and we love having them home. But we had quickly become used to having our place to ourselves, and as much as we loved being around our kids, we looked forward to the quiet to which we had become accustomed.

Kid 2 sees that as me wanting to get rid of her and her sister, but she's got it wrong. And I'm sure there are times when she wishes to be away from us. I get it. She wants to spread her wings and fly.

DW and I wish her smooth sailing and we couldn't be more proud of her.

This weekend, we packed up Kid 2's possessions and moved her to an apartment in Toronto. She is sharing a large place with three other people who seem to be really good people. The apartment is in a neighbourhood that is close to venues where Kid 2 performs (she's a jazz drummer). She has access to public transit to get her to campus in the fall, when she resumes studies.

Kid 2's life, packed up in a 4x8 U-Haul trailer.

It's hard for us to see her go. She'll be a starving artist, having to play gigs to stay afloat (and likely, a part-time job to supplement income). She can be headstrong and delicate at the same time, so DW and I will be worried the whole time she's away.

Of course, she always has a place to land, should living in Toronto become too much to handle. It's not an easy nor inexpensive city in which to live.

On the sidelines, we'll be rooting for her and reminding her that we have her back. DW and I will make time to head down to Toronto to catch her shows. She has an aunt who also lives in Toronto, not too far away, and in the fall, her sister will also return to the GTA.

Time has really thrown DW and me a curveball. Our kids are growing up and flying away. Retirement is coming into sight.

This is the most bittersweet time of life.

Working With 50

It used to be my favourite lens.

Back in the days before I owned my own SLR camera, I would borrow my father's Minolta SR-T 101. The only lens that he had for this great manual camera was a 58mm f/1.2 lens: no wide-angle lens, no telephoto. In fact, for quite a while after I first learned how to use the camera and take my first photos, I didn't even know that the lens came off.

In the last two years of high school, when I was a photographer for our yearbook, I would compose shots with only this lens. It was the lens that taught me how to compose a photograph for maximum impact.

When I took Journalism at Algonquin College, I decided that I needed my own camera. Because I had worked at a paint and wallpaper store in our local shopping mall since before the end of high school, I had saved enough money to buy a Minolta X-700 with a 28–75mm zoom lens. For my Photojournalism class, this is the camera that I used but I also borrowed that 58mm lens from my father's camera.

Can you blame me? It had an f-stop of 1.2!

The prime lens still held my interest. Because I couldn't zoom in or zoom out on my subject, I had to put more thought into the composition of the shot. Some of the best photos that I captured for my photojournalism projects were with that 58mm lens.

The next lens that I bought for my X-700 was a 50mm f/1.8 lens. I loved how it made my camera seem so compact—it was much smaller than the bulky 58mm lens, though not as fast. It became the most-used lens on that camera for years. In fact, I'm pretty sure that if I dug out that old camera from my storage closet, I'd find it with that 50mm lens on it.

When I first moved over to digital photography, with my Nikon D80, I bought it with an 18–55mm kit lens—it was on sale. But as soon as I could afford a second lens, I chose a 50mm lens.

For Christmas of 2019, I bought myself a Nikon D750, deciding to finally go full-frame with my digital photography. I had meant to wait until my birthday, the following March, but the camera store was offering to throw in a free lens with their holiday promotion, and I jumped at the offer.

The lens that they threw in was a 50mm f/1.8 lens that was compatible for full-frame photography—something that my existing 50mm lens wasn't.

I have to admit that I used it for the first time that I went shooting with the D750 but because I had already bought a 24–70mm 2.8 lens when I bought my D7200, in 2015, I had made this zoom lens the standard lens for my D750. They just work so well together.

In March of this year, DW and I decided to go to a Sunday brunch in Centretown. Afterward, we had planned to walk around this downtown neighbourhood, to enjoy it for the first time since the Free-Dumb Convoy had been moved out.

I decided to bring my D750 with me, to take photos along our walk. But because I've taken countless photos along Elgin Street and Sparks Street over the years, I decided that I wanted to challenge myself, and so I placed my 50mm lens on the body.

You can see some of the photos that I took in the Wordless Wednesday post that followed that weekend.

Because I haven't shot many photos with my D750 since that Sunday walk, I never swapped out the lens. And any time I've decided to pick up my camera to take some shots, I've decided to keep the 50mm lens attached.

Last Friday, I decided to head out a couple of times to take some photos. I went out just after sunrise, to capture tulips at Hog's Back Park. I'll be sharing those photos in next week's Wordless Wednesday post.

That evening, I wanted to capture some more images, so I drove to Gatineau and visited the Museum of Civilization, across the river from Parliament Hill. I wanted to snap some sunset and blue-hour photographs.

When I saw a bed or tulips near the stairs that lead down, between the two buildings of the museum, I wanted to get an angle such that I'd get the flowers, up close, but would have the Parliament Buildings in the background. Working with the 50mm lens, it was a challenge, but I managed to pull it off.

You can see photos from that night, including the tulip shot with Parliament Hill, in this week's Wordless Wednesday post.

The museum provides one of the best vistas of downtown Ottawa. Not just of Parliament Hill and the high-rise buildings of the city's core, but also of the National Gallery of Canada, the Byward Market, and the Chateau Laurier.

But with a 50mm lens, you simply cannot capture it all in one shot. So, as blue hour was in full swing, I composed one frame of Parliament Hill, and another of the Chateau Laurier to the Gallery.

I couldn't decide which photo was best so I've included them both.

The 50mm lens may not always be my go-to lens in the digital age but it still can be a worthwhile piece of glass when you want to challenge yourself.

Happy Friday!

(Side note: today marks the 100^th post on The Brown Knowser for 2022. Thanks for stopping by!)

Popcorn

I'm hopeful that we'll soon get back to the days when we can gather, safely, with scarcely a risk of catching a virus, and watch fireworks.

The risk is usually low for me, anyway, as I seek out spots that aren't crowded, where I can not only photograph the beautiful displays of light but also capture the surroundings in which they explode. Not too far away from the excitement but not too close.

The odd fellow photographer, or two, are my biggest risk.

I also have to give more thought about where to set up my photo equipment. I don't like to shoot from the same spot twice. And so I have to plan out where I'll be well in advance.

In 2018, for example, I was asked by the Ottawa blog, Apt613, to photograph the Sound of Light show. I was planning to photograph the event, anyway, but by being invited by Apt613, I was provided with tickets that would allow me to get to where the crowds gather for the best views and to hear the accompanying music clearly.

The event had special seating in two locations: at the base of the Rideau Locks, between Parliament Hill and the Chateau Laurier, and across the river, at the Museum of Civilization.

I told the folks at Apt613 that I would shoot two of the evening events, provided that I had tickets for both venues. I met one of the staff on the first night, at the Rideau Locks, and was given an envelope with two tickets.

I pulled out the first ticket, which happened to be the ticket for the Rideau Locks, and made my way to a position about mid-way on the Chateau-side of the locks, across from the Bytown Museum. I wanted to capture the fireworks as well as the spectators.

One of my favourite displays made me think of popcorn. long, striped trails of light resembled a classic bag, and yellowy-white sparkles, above the striped shafts made me think of popcorn. Blue, white, and red streams of light, above the 'popcorn,' showed the colours of the French flag (I may be wrong, but memory tells me that this Sound of Light show was presented by France).

It was a beautiful show.

My next 'gig' was to be two nights later.

Was to be.

When I got home from the France fireworks display, I decided to recycle the envelope and put the second ticket in my camera bag. It was then that I noticed that the second ticket was also for the Rideau Locks, not for the other side of the Ottawa River.

The next day, I contacted the person (through text) who gave me the tickets and asked her if I could swap out my unused ticket for the museum side. She told me that all of the tickets had been given out to volunteer photographers and that she had no more.

Could she contact one of those photographers to see if they could swap with me? She said she didn't know who had which tickets. It would take too much effort to find a museum-side ticket and she wasn't prepared to do it. Best that I just use the ticket I had.

No can do, I told her. I explained that I never shoot from the same venue twice. She didn't respond to that text.

I didn't go to the second event. I only submitted the photos of the France show. (In truth, if Apt613 had other photographers and had my France set of photos, how many more did they need?)

This year, I might try to get below the Supreme Court building, along the Ottawa River, and shoot from there. As long as there aren't large crowds.

Happy Thursday!

An Evening At A Museum

A Year In

I haven't used my Aeroplan points to book travel since my trip to South Korea, three years ago. And the only reason why I flew on points was because the taxes (which aren't covered by points) made it so that the flight only cost me about $150, round-trip.

Before Korea, I hadn't used points for a flight since 2010, when I flew to Scotland. I prefer to not use points to fly, as doing so often caused lengthy transit times, with a few connections that cost me unnecessary hours of waiting and going through various security points.

I like to fly direct, taking as little time and making as few connections as possible.

At the start of the pandemic, I had accrued a lot of Aeroplan points, enough to fly in business class, anywhere in the world. But because I knew that it would be some time before I flew again, and I didn't know whether my trove of points would evaporate from lack of use, DW and I decided to go to the Aeroplan site and redeem points for merchandise.

We redeemed points for a kick-ass humidifier, a charger stand that allows DW to recharge her iPhone, Apple watch, and ear buds at the same time. We also got her ear buds with points.

For myself, I redeemed points for my Garmin smart watch. A year in to using it, I have to say it's been one of the best purchases through Aeroplan points that I've ever made.

First, I can't believe how long the battery lasts. I typically go about five days between charges. For example, last February, when DW and I went to Mexico, I charged my watch a few hours before we left for the airport, early on a Sunday morning.

That Friday evening, as I was readying myself for bed, I had to plug in my watch. "Is that the first recharge since we left?" asked DW as I pulled out my charge cable.

"Yup."

DW has to charge her iWatch every other day.

One of the things that made me change my old Samsung Fit Gear watch was that it had difficulties in accurately tracking the number of flights of stairs, and it wouldn't count small footsteps if I was performing chores in the kitchen.

My Garmin Venu has never failed me and is always able to accurately sync with the Connect app on my phone.

I know that I haven't taken advantage of nearly all that this watch has to offer. I've added no apps, no widgets, and I don't use Garmin Pay nor do I play music through my watch. But because I always keep my smartphone close by, I haven't had a need to use these features with my watch.

I love how, with a minimal amount of buttons or tapping, I can start a workout, such as a bike ride or a kayaking trip, or a hike. I wish that there was a dedicated kayaking activity, rather than a generic rowing one, but it works nonetheless.

I get warned when my stress levels are too high and need to settle down. This feature has pleased DW as well as me.

An added bonus is how the watch synchronizes my activities with my Conqueror virtual challenges. As soon as I stop an activity, that activity and the distance travelled through that activity are recorded in The Conqueror app and I'm sent a notification.

One less thing I have to worry about at the end of the day.

So yeah, I'm really happy with my Garmin watch, one year later. It's the best purchase that I've made with my Aeroplan points (though, I may look into seeing if I can use them to fly again—maybe, to Iceland next year?).

Exposed

Now that the weather has improved (I guess that now, we go from complaining that it was too cold to it's too hot), I've been spending more time on my road bike, exploring Ottawa and its environs. I'm mostly sticking to my regular routes that take me south of the city, through small towns and villages, though I've also been riding around the north end of the city, too.

Since the start of May, I have logged more than 300 kilometres on my road bike over five rides. I'm further ahead, this year, than I was at this time, last year, and I'm feeling pretty good about that. My goal for this cycling season is to complete a ride that is more than 100 kms in length. I'm looking to possibly ride to Oxford Mills and back.

Stay tuned.

On Saturday, I decided to head out on the road before the heat made cycling unbearable. I plotted a ride from my home, in Barrhaven, to the Aylmer marina, on the Québec side of the Ottawa River. According to my Garmin Connect app, the most-direct route would be almost 58 kms, round-trip. This bike ride would be my second-longest, after the CN Cycle for CHEO, on May 1.

Much of the ride to Aylmer was uneventful. I was familiar with most of the route to Gatineau. When my company had an office on St-Raymond, I would sometimes cycle to work, crossing at the Champlain Bridge. From there, it was a very short pedal to my office.

But on this ride, I looped under the Champlain Bridge and rode westward along the northern shore of the Ottawa River. The path—the Outaouais leg of the Route Verte series of pathways—winds its way between the river and Boulevard de Lucerne, and passes the Deschênes Rapids and various other lookouts. I've never cycled this way before.

By the time I reached the Aylmer marina, I could already feel the 30°C heat and it was going to only get hotter. I got off my bike to stretch, eat part of a Clif Bar, and drink some cool water.

I'm really glad I used the hydration backpack that DW bought last year. It holds two litres of water and has a tube that is easily accessible. You gently bite on a valve and suck the water out. Before the ride, I filled half the reservoir with ice and topped it off with water, which stayed cool throughout the journey.

I really needed that water. I felt so exposed under that hot sun.

On the ride home, I noticed that many more cyclists were on the Route Verte: serious cyclists in groups; recreational cyclists; runners; families, both walking and cycling. Everybody was taking advantage of the beautiful day and were respecting the rules of sharing the path.

I saw her while riding along a straight stretch of the path. Even from more than a couple of hundred metres, I could see that something was amiss. A young woman, in her mid-to-late 20s, riding toward me.

She was wearing a bikini top, looking to get a start on her summer tan. I certainly didn't question her choice of cycling outfit, even though the path was bumpy in several spots and I would have chosen more support. But it was absolutely none of my business to comment on what somebody chooses to wear.

Isn't that right, Béatrice-Desloges Catholic High School?

From more than 100 metres away, I could tell that the bikini top had shifted. It was no longer covering this young woman's breasts. And I was cycling straight toward her.

(Side note to all of my women readers: if your breasts pop out of whatever you're wearing to cover them, do you not notice?)

What was the proper etiquette? How do you inform someone who is riding toward you that she is, perhaps, showing more than she had intended? I only had a couple of seconds, at most, to convey a message. I had to think of what to say. Also, because I was in Québec, did I communicate in French?

I chose to speak in English. As we got within about 20 or so metres from one another, I waved with my left hand to get the young woman's attention. I then spread my fingers and placed my hand on my own chest. With fewer than 10 metres to go, I said, "You're exposed."

One of her own hands went to her chest, and she let out a surprised, "Oh!" as we passed one another.

I didn't stop, didn't look back. Message delivered.

I do have a question for the two riders who passed me, who were still visible, who had also passed this woman. At the point where they passed her and she was between me and them, I could already see that she had popped out of her bikini top. Why didn't they let her know?

I guess my Dad mode had kicked in. If she had been one of my daughters, I'd want her to know.

The rest of my ride, though hot, was uneventful.

I ride again this evening, weather permitting.

Friday Fiction: Only a Kiss

The following passage is a rough-draft excerpt from my upcoming novel, Gyeosunim, the sequel to Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary. Be warned that there are spoilers and you may be missing some context. Passages are in no particular order and are subject to change.

August 15, 1998

“Oh, Roland, that explains a lot.”

“How so?”

“One of the secretaries in our office,” Naomi said, pausing to take a sip of the Wyndham Estate shiraz that I picked up in Itaewon, earlier that afternoon. It was a good find, though I paid far too much for the six bottles, even though the shop owner swore he was giving me a good discount. Naomi had been swirling her oversized glass before taking another sip, nodding her head in approval as she let the mouthful move over her tongue before swallowing.

We had had a great day together. I had snagged the first bus out of Chŏnju and arrived on her doorstep, in the UN Village, before ten. Just in time for a brunch of scrambled eggs, ham, and tomato in a fresh croissant from Paris Baguette, and plenty of fresh-ground coffee.

Not instant. Real coffee.

In the afternoon, we took a taxi to Itaewan and wandered the main street, where myriad stalls along the long sidewalks sold endless souvenirs to tourists and American soldiers from the nearby base. Naomi was looking for a gift to send her parents, who were celebrating an upcoming wedding anniversary. She was looking for wedding ducks.

The Korean wedding ducks were symbolic: they were, by tradition, Mandarin ducks, which were believed to mate for life and give good luck to the couple who owned them. When given as a wedding gift, the ducks were to bestow five good fortunes upon the happy couple: to gain wealth; to maintain health; to be good to one another; to avoid divorce; and to have many sons. Many of these fortunes were already bestowed upon Naomi’s parents. They were both successful lawyers and lived in Ottawa’s wealthy Rockcliffe neighbourhood. Both of her parents were in good health and were very happy together: divorce was not in their foreseeable future.

The fifth fortune had already passed Naomi’s parents by. Only daughters graced the Warner family, and two is where Naomi’s parents stopped. Her younger sister, Jennifer, is where Bill and Grace Warner stopped.

But the ducks would be a welcome gift. Naomi was looking for painted ducks, but ones where the traditional colours were reversed. The blue duck was often the male, whereas the female duck was often orange and always had a thread tied around the beak, a symbol that the woman should be seen but not heard. Naomi wanted to reverse that role but was unsuccessful. It wasn’t until she found a shop, away from the sidewalk, where there were ducks yet unassembled. She convinced the owner to glue the threaded head onto a blue body. The woman running the establishment laughed when Naomi, in her improving Hangul, conveyed her intentions for the gift.

It was on the side street that housed this gift shop where I found the small wine store. “If I buy half a case,” I asked Naomi, “would you store them at your place? Just one more thing to look forward to when I come to visit you.”

We also found a butcher shop, where we picked up a couple of steaks, and a small market, where we picked up garlic, oil, herbs, and salad vegetables. That was to be our dinner for the evening.

Now, with our meal out of the way, dishes washed and put away, and the kitchen tidied, we retired to the living room and were finishing our second bottle of Australian shiraz. Naomi swallowed her mouthful and continued.

“We had an office party last night. Small celebration, but we had just secured a Canadian account with Daewoo. They’ll be selling cars in Canada by next spring and we’ll be handling their finances. Anyway, we were popping bottles of sparkling wine—bad, Chinese sparkling wine—and as I was about to hand a glass to one of our secretaries, I asked her her age. She told me she was nineteen but I didn’t believe her. She looked much younger.”

“Chronologically,” I said, “she could be seventeen. If she was born on December 31, she would have been one year old. The next day, January first, or New Year’s Day, she would turn another year older. So, at one day old, she would technically be two years old, according to Korean tradition.”

“How confusing.”

“Yes. When I see a classroom full of students, I see people who seem too young to be in the room. And, of course, emotionally, they are.” I told Naomi about the various interactions that I had with students, how some seemed mature for their so-called age and how others just couldn’t seem to function in a college setting.

“She likes you, Roland. Look how she turns her head slightly to the side as she listens to you but her eyes are locked on yours. Look at that smile.”

It was Kristen’s voice, speaking softly next to me. I could feel her leaning against my back, her head just above my left shoulder, her face so close to my ear that I could almost feel her breath.

“Tanya’s gone, I’m gone. Naomi is here.”

“There’s that bottle gone,” said Naomi, pouring the last drops of our second bottle. “Shall I open a third?”

“Maybe I should have bought a whole case. I just didn’t want to have to schlep it around Itaewon while we continued shopping.”

“So, is that a yes to the next bottle?”

Kristen spoke again. “Say yes, see where it leads. I’d be at peace if I knew you and Naomi found happiness.”

“Why not?” I said, finishing the last mouthful in my glass. As Naomi left the room to fetch the third bottle, I turned to my imaginary Kristen. “I don’t think this would be a good idea. I like Naomi and she’s a beautiful woman, but I’ve only ever thought of her as your best friend and not a potential lover. What if things don’t work out and we can no longer stay friends? She’s one of my ties to you and I don’t want to lose that.”

“You’re both adults. I’m sure you can handle whatever comes of it.”

I got up from the sofa and sat at the piano near the doors to the balcony. The city was lit up before us. Looking slightly northward, Namsan Tower rose above its hilltop like an illuminated beacon. I lifted the fall to expose the keys and let my fingers gently caress the ivories. Without thinking, the opening notes to “End of the Party” by The Beat began to fill the living room.

“I loved that song,” said Kristen.

“I love that song,” said Naomi, returning with an uncorked bottle. She filled both of our glasses, which were on the coffee table, and carried them over to the piano. She placed my glass on the music shelf in front of me and sat next to me, on the edge of the bench.

“She said to leave it till the end of the party,
Do it now, you know there's never a next time,
How come the feeling that it's only just started,
Pull back your cover, I could love you for all time,
But do it now, you know there's never a next time.”

“Do it now, Roland,” whispered Kristen into my ear, “you know, there may never be a next time.”

“The bees are busy,
Now there's gold on the hill,
The branches waving,
But our hearts are wrapped up inside,
And then you leave me, so I start missing you a lot.

No argument, oh do I love you or not?

No argument, you’ve all the love that I see as mine,
Pull back your cover, I could love you for all time,
But do it now, you know there's never a next time.”

My tempo was a bit slower as I moved into the instrumental segment, playing both the saxophone and piano parts at the same time. I was rusty. Kristen and I used to entertain our friends all the time, with me eventually turning to our piano and serenading our guests, with Kristen occasionally joining in.

“You could do this again. Our friends could be in our living room. You and Naomi could entertain them,” said Kristen.

“I wish I had musical talent,” said Naomi. “In high school, I played clarinet in our junior band but I was terrible. I quit after the tenth grade. Did you play piano in high school?”

“Trumpet,” I said. “We had a student who was much better on the piano than I was. I took up the trumpet because I was interested in taking up another instrument. Piano was taken and our music teacher didn’t seem keen on adding an acoustic guitar to his concert and jazz bands.”

“How many instruments do you play?” She leaned in closer to me but I made more room for her on the bench.

“Coward,” said Kristen.

“I play four, but not all of them very well. I picked up the trombone for a while but my music teacher wanted me to stick to the trumpet for the bands.”

“And you can sing.” Naomi took another mouthful of wine. I stopped playing to share the moment with my own glass.

“I’m an okay singer.”

“Well I, for one, love your voice. I know Kristen did, too.”

“I did,” she confirmed in my ear.

“We had a lot of fun singing and playing together,” I said. I returned my glass to the shelf and continued:

“She said to leave it till the end of the party…
How come the feeling that it's always just starting…

The bees are busy
Now there's gold on the hill,
The branches waving
But our hearts are wrapped up inside,
And then you leave me so I start missing you a lot,
No argument, oh do I love you, I love you or not… ohhh…”

“If you turn your face to hers,” whispered Kristen, “I bet she’ll lean in to kiss you.”

“Strength is not the same as anger,
Put the taste back into hunger,
Searching the box, looking for what?
I love you, I love you not.

Strength is not the same as anger,
Put the taste back into hunger,
Searching the box looking for what?
Push the gear back into top,

Put the first back into class,
Lose your bottle break the glass,
You'll wind up high and dry with just this slow cold comfort…”

“Look,” said Kristen.

No.

“Roland,” said Naomi.

I turned my face to meet hers.

Band Trips

Among my best memories of high school were my times spent in the music room. I loved playing my trumpet in the band.

I wasn't an outstanding player but I held my own and would often be placed in first or second position. In my last year in the senior stage band, I was given a piece of music where I played fifth trumpet and though I was being demoted, but that arrangement actually had me standing out from the rest of the other trumpets. It was a great piece and I gave one of my best performance playing it during a competition against other regional high schools.

We won, that year. I wish I remembered the name of that piece.

But when we were in grade 10, our music teacher and band leader, Geoff "Link" Linklater, took the junior concert band on our first trip outside our city. It was part of a student exchange between our band and another, in Sydney, Nova Scotia.

The Sydney band members came to Ottawa, first, and we billeted them in our homes. When it was our turn to head out east, the Sydney folks opened their homes to us.

Our tour started by rail, where we took a train from Ottawa. I don't remember where we got off the train but I do have memories of seeing Québec City, by night, crossing over the Pont de Québec Bridge. I remember a stop at a small town in the middle of the night, where I jumped off our car, which was close to the engine, and ran to the end of the train before we set out again.

I had climbed onto the last car and took my time returning to our band's car, having stopped in the dining car for a soft drink before continuing. When I finally arrived in my proper car, Link, one of my friends, and another teacher were in a panic because they thought I didn't get back on the train before it pulled out.

I was in the doghouse for the remainder of our train ride.

I also remember the train crossing into Nova Scotia, coming into Amherst. There's something about the flat, open, low-lying landscape that looks out to one of the terminal forks of the Bay of Fundy that left such an impression with me that I think back to that trip every time I've passed that way since.

We arrived late in the night, to Antigonish, and took a chartered bus to St. Francis Xavier University, where we stayed in residence for the night. One of our band mates, Wendy, had grandparents in Antigonish so she was allowed to stay with them, instead.

The next day, we climbed aboard our chartered bus and made our way to Cape Breton Island and, onward, to Sydney. I remember sitting at the back of the bus, listening to my portable stereo (ghetto blaster, we called them), and Andy asked me to play his cassette tape of Rush's Permanent Waves. And, when we tried to find radio stations, we found a frequency that matched the bus engine, and for a long time, we just listened to the buzz of the motor through stereo speakers.

It was a great trip.

As my high school prepares for a 50th anniversary reunion, next year, DW, who also attended the same school, is following a group on Facebook. As with the photo I shared on my blog, a few weeks ago, and gave DW to share with the group, other alumni have been sharing memories and images.

One person, who was in the junior band in the same year as this Nova Scotia trip, shared a photo of our band in front of our chartered bus. The description says that this photo was shot in Bathurst, New Brunswick.

I don't remember much of our return trip—whether we took the bus all the way back to Ottawa or took a train part of the way—but I do remember that we did make some stops along the way home, performing at various schools and venues.

This photo was taken on our return home. It's the spring of 1981. I don't know who took the photo, though it was possibly taken by Link or one of our other teacher-chaperons. It was shared on the Facebook group by one of the clarinet players in the band.

Can you find me? I highly doubt it.

First of all, I was a string bean and had a lot longer hair than I do now. I'm also only partially visible, as I'm at the back of the crowd.

I'm not even looking at the camera.

Here I am:

I look at this picture and I remember quite a few people: Jamie, Wendy, Kathryn, Rick, Bart, Val, Andy, Andrew, Sandy, Peter, Stephen, Don, Tina. I recognize so many other faces but can't pin a name to them.

And, as much as I search this photo, I can't find my best friend, Stuart, who played the French horn. I know he was on this trip.

This was our first band trip away from home. It wouldn't be our last. And oh, the stories I could tell...

Happy Thursday!

Spring Blooms

Three Years On

Since the pandemic started, I've lost all concept of time.

Everything that happened before March, 2020, seems to be in my distant past, though March 2020, itself, doesn't seem that long ago. It's as though we've made a quantum leap in time under the pandemic, with everything else pushed far into the past.

Three years ago, today, I found myself in Seoul, South Korea, though because of the time difference, I skipped a day. What should have been late on a Friday night was mid-day, Saturday.

It amazed me how I didn't recognize so much of the city yet knew exactly where to go. Buildings had come down and had been replaced with taller, more modern ones, though pieces of history still abounded. Having taken a train from the modern airport, which didn't exist the last time I was in Korea, to the central station, which had existed for more than 100 years, I was able to find my orientation and walk, without a map, to my hotel.

Over the next couple of days, I would use my old familiarity of the city to explore. I also used modern technology—Google—to locate where I would need to go to catch a bus to get to places I hadn't explored before. A T-card ensured that I wouldn't need cash to ride public transit.

It wasn't until December of last year that we've been able to travel again. Since then, DW and I have been on two trips, with our next big travel plans set for mid-September and another one in January, 2023. But I also think of my trip to Korea, in 2019, and tell myself, when the anniversary of that solo excursion comes around, that I don't think I'm done with that country, where I lived from 1997 to 1999.

I think I'll be back. But because my concept of time has been skewed, I just don't know when.

Retirement

DW asked me the other day, "If you could retire to anywhere in the world, where would you choose?"

"Is money an object?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "Imagine if we could retire in the next year. Where would you want to live?"

© Ross Brown

"Scotland," was my firm answer. "Preferably, in Edinburgh."

"Oh, God, not me! Why Scotland?"

"Ever since I went there, I fell in love with it. Every time I'm there, I feel comfortable."

In truth, I don't know if we could afford to live out the rest of our days in Edinburgh. I know that we certainly couldn't afford to live in North Berwick, my real preference for a Scottish retirement location. I guess my attachment to my fictional character's home town has caught my imagination and heart.

I'm never going to completely retire, of course. I may leave my job, sometime in the next three to eight years, but I will spend my 'retirement' writing books and taking photos—hopefully, selling both.

DW pictures herself staying in Canada, even staying in the National Capital Region, but in a comfortable house in a small town: Perth, Carleton Place, Arnprior, Manotick. A couple of weekends ago, we even checked out a beautiful house to the south of us, along the Rideau River. This is where DW could see herself retiring, where she could happily live out the rest of her days.

I, too, loved the house. I could see myself, sitting on the deck, looking out onto the river, sipping a morning coffee or an afternoon pint, or a glass of wine with friends. I would have to set up a writing space that faced away from the river, as it would be a constant distraction. But I would be happy there.

I'd like to retire when I turn 60, though DW says, realistically, retirement should come when I'm closer to 65. My dad died when he was 62 and was still working (I'm only five years away from that age!). I'm in much better health than he was when his heart gave out, but I want to start my next chapter long before health becomes an issue.

Where will we be when that time comes? Will we find the perfect place to live out our final days? If Scotland isn't it, if this house along the Rideau isn't, then where?

Time will tell.

Dyin'

I had meant to post an excerpt from my book for Friday Fiction, but I'm dyin', folks.

I've been working on a love scene for Gyeosunim but it's been a challenge. In Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary, there are two sex scenes, and for some reason I had no problem writing them. In the sequel, it's more of a challenge. I've written and rewritten this section. It brings together two characters in a way that doesn't seem natural to me.

In an excerpt that I've already shared, you learn early in the story that this romance doesn't last. But how it comes together just seems awkward and I need to work on it some more. I expect to have it ironed out in the next couple of days and will post it next week.

Is that okay?

In the meantime, I'll share a photo that I shot a couple of days ago.

Just as my orchids grabbed my attention, at the beginning of the year, when they were in full bloom, they also caught my eye this week, as I saw three wilted flowers dangling on the stem. I had thought that by touching them, they would just drop from the plant and land on our kitchen island counter.

But they held on.

I tried pulling them off but the stem only bent with them. They didn't want to let go.

They're dyin' but they're not going without a fight.

And just as I'm determined to keep working on this part of my novel until I get it right, these shrivelling orchids are determined to remain attached.

Eventually, either way, something's gotta give.

Happy Friday!

Beer O'Clock: Hi-Fi

I have to say that I'm really glad that DW talked me into stopping at one of our area LCBOs, a few weeks ago. I've been avoiding stores that I don't consider 'essential,' and because I've been able to order beer online and have it delivered, the LCBO is only 'essential' when we run out of wine or other booze.

I'm glad she decided that she needed some St-Germaine. For if she hadn't, if we didn't go into the LCBO near the Barrhaven Costco, I wouldn't have gone into the beer section, wouldn't have seen some new releases, and would not have left the store with six cans from three different breweries and three very different styles of brew.

I also have to admit that under most circumstances, I wouldn't have reached for a sour ale. There are very few that I like: I'm not into lip-puckering sours. If it's going to be sour, it has to be mildly so.

So when I saw a mango-passionfruit sour from a Chatham brewery, I nearly said, "nah." But then I said, "You know what? What the hell... why not?"

I'm glad I did.

Hi-Fi Mango Passionfruit (4.8% ABV)
Sons of Kent Brewing Company
Chatham ON

Appearance: an effervescent orange juice appearance with a bubbly white head that dissipates quickly. It reminds me of a murky orange soda, like Orangina.

Nose: tart tropical notes of oranges, mangoes, guava, and passionfruit. There's also a trace of acetone.

Palate: the passionfruit leads the way, followed my mango juice and oranges. The sourness comes on top of the fruit: it's obvious but not overpowering. It's also at the limit of what I like in a sour ale—I'm not quite puckering up.

Overall impression: if this ale was just a wee bit lighter in sourness, it would be perfect. I like the lush fruit and light body. This would make a great brew to enjoy on a hot summer patio or would quench your thirst after tending your garden. Or to sip while you're sitting on your front porch at the end of a workday. I like it but I get my hackles up a bit before I take a sip. I'm calm as the ale swirls around my mouth and washes down my throat.

If you like sour ales, you'll really like this offering from Sons of Kent. If you're okay with sour ales, this might test your tolerance, as it did with me. But if you're not into sour, this is not the brew for you.

Beer O'Clock rating: 🍺🍺

You can find Hi-Fi brews at your friendly neighbourhood LCBO or you can order directly from Sons of Kent. There is a flat rate of $15 across Ontario and all orders over $100 are free.

Cheers!

Cycling Views

Great Ride, Great Cause

I don't know why I was worried as the day loomed close.

I had only managed to get on my road bike twice in April. Springtime in Ottawa can be unpredictable with the weather and we certainly saw weird weather, with snow falling as late as last Wednesday, April 27—four days before the event! I think that's the latest we've seen snow in memory.

April 27.

The wind has been strong over the past couple of weeks, and that bothered me the most. I'd rather have rain on my ride than wind.

It's likely the lack of practice on my bicycle that had me worried the most. With other long rides I've done in the past, I've had several weeks worth of time in the saddle, leading up to the big day.

But I needn't have worried as the CN Cycle for CHEO approached.

I've been riding my spin bike at least five times a week since last November, when it became too cold to venture out on the road. On the day of this charity fundraiser, I had already logged more than 1,726 kilometres on my spin bike.

I was ready.

Sunday couldn't have been better for the ride. Not a cloud in the sky, the wind wasn't a hinderance, and the temperature wasn't too cold nor too hot. I wore leggings under my cycle pants and a lightweight, Merino wool sweater under my cycle jersey, and stayed comfortable. I started the ride with a toque under my helmet, but removed it after about 25 kms or so.

I was fine.

It wasn't my fastest ride, but I averaged a respectable 23.6 kph and covered the 70 kms in just under three hours. I didn't push myself but I didn't crawl.

I was good.

Most importantly, I had support from family and friends, and together we raised $300 for CHEO, which is 20 percent more than my goal. Thank you to all of my sponsors.

Overall, the event raised $1,426,840. That's something to celebrate.

I really needn't have worried about the ride. When I finished, I stayed to listen to the Commotions, who were performing on the War Museum grounds. I had a hamburger that was provided by one of the hundreds of volunteers, and then I cycled to a spot where DW could pick me up and take me home.

The way I felt, I could have cycled the extra 20 kms to get home. But I didn't.

I was worried about how I would feel afterwards.