Distant Past

Over the past couple of months, I've had some friends reach out to me with one question in mind: am I planning to go to my high-school reunion?

To each of them, my answer has been the same: no.

Hanging in the 'Red Room': my bestie, Stu, me, and Kathy K.
Signing a yearbook, apparently. Photo shot with my camera, possibly by David "Sandy" B.

It's been 50 years since J.S. Woodsworth Secondary School opened its doors to teens in the Parkwood Hills/Borden Farm/City View/Country Place/Barrhaven areas. The school closed its doors in the mid-2000s, changing to a school within the Ottawa Catholic School Board shortly thereafter.

There was a mini-reunion, when J.S. closed down, with a school band playing, teachers wandering the halls, slideshows in the cafetorium, and general doors open. A couple of my friends, with whom I had still kept in touch, agreed to meet me there, and I brought my two kids to show them the halls and the places where I used to hang out.

By the time I got to the school, at the arranged time with my friends, some of the teachers that I had wanted to see again had already left: my music teacher, Mr. Linklater 'Link;' my English teacher, Mr. Lemke; one of my science teachers, Mr. Gray; one of my math teachers, Mr. Mullen. There were a couple of other teachers that could still be found but either they were teachers that I recognized but was never in any of their classes, or teachers I had studied under but wasn't interested in saying "hello" to.

My friends also never showed up so I ended up walking around the school with my kids, which took less than an hour to do, including watching some of the slideshow and sitting in the foyer, waiting to catch up with my friends who ended up ghosting me (one forgot; the other changed his mind).

While I sat in the foyer, a couple of students that I recognized from classes but never actually knew saw me and said hi. We exchanged pleasantries but that was about the extent of it.

As I made the decision to to leave, another person that I vaguely recognized approached me and asked if I would sign a form that would be used to keep me in touch with other students and be notified of the next reunion.

"No thanks," I said. Not in a mean-spirited kind of way, but firmly. I already had the contact information of people with whom I already kept in touch. I didn't want to hear from people who, after more than 20 years, I no longer knew.

And almost a year ago, I had heard through DW (who also went to J.S.) and some friends that a reunion was in the works for 2023, the 50th anniversary since the school's opening. Some of my friends were considering going but were still up in the air.

"If enough of you go," I said, "I'll go, too." It would be an excuse for all of us to meet in one place.

But as the date grew near, I went from a weak 'maybe' to a firm 'no.' I didn't want to go. I didn't want to see people that I hadn't seen in decades, people who I really didn't care about.

I don't miss the school: its halls, the classrooms, the gymnasium, nor the cafeteria.

Looking back, I had fun with friends and I still keep in touch with the closest, but I hated high school. And in the months leading up to my high school's 50th anniversary, I have realized just how much I had hated it.

Yeah, it would be nice to see Link again but it's not worth wading through all the other teachers, all the students, that I couldn't care less about. They're ghosts from a past that I'm happy to keep in that distant past.

I remember, in the last days of my final year, when the senior students were ushered into our cafetorium to watch a slideshow/video of images that were captured of our graduating class. Over it was a song that set the theme of the presentation, and it went on to say that these high-school years were the best years of our lives.

How depressing. And how utterly false.

My best years came long after I walked out of the doors of J.S. Woodsworth. I found joy in Journalism School, where I made more friends—some that I still have to this day. Even though I learned, soon after graduating and getting a job at a newspaper, that being a reporter was not a life that I wanted to pursue, I enjoyed the experience much more than my years in high school.

When I fell in love with a woman who would be my soulmate, that was one of the best times of my life. Years of travel have given me life experiences and (hopefully) wisdom. My kids have given me more joy than I can possibly imagine.

I have my health and I'm doing fine in life. I have my family and friends from all stages of life. I don't need to look back at high school, don't need to relive a time that I couldn't wait to be over.

No, I won't be going to my high school reunion. I have better things to do.

Like enjoy my life.

Beer O'Clock: Droit au Cœur

It was really hard to shop for this beer.

One of the bad things about working from home can often be that you don't get to meet face-to-face with your co-workers. You don't get to go for coffee together or have impromptu chats in the corridor.

That's not so bad for me. I tend to shy away from people, in general. I've given up coffee, and when I'm walking along a corridor, it's always to get from A to B. In the office, I'm basically a bit anti-social, just wanting to get my job done and then get the hell out of there, to explore my own interests.

But the bad thing about not going into the office for me has been that since the pandemic changed my work habits, a new building went up on the street where my work is located. And it's a brewery.

I knew Brasserie du Bas-Canada from when the family and I ventured out east, to the Maritime provinces. Passing through Québec, on the south shores of the St. Lawrence River, we stopped at a shop in Drummondville that sold soup, sandwiches, knick-knacks, and craft beer, and I picked up a few cans from this brewery, which I believe originated in Montreal.

There are now two locations in Gatineau: one, as I said, is on the street where my company is located. You have to drive by the brewery to get to work and pass by it again on the way home.

Last week, I did venture to the office. Not to work from there or meet with any co-workers, though I did see one and said 'hi.' I went to the office to collect the last of my personal effects, some pictures that I had, hanging on walls in a gallery that fellow photographers and I had created several years ago.

I timed my visit to be after I had finished work for the day, when I knew that few people would be in the office. I also timed my visit to coincide when Bas-Canada was open.

The brewery has a quaint taproom with low lighting and cozy tables, as well as a bar. Not being familiar with their current lineup and all but having forgotten past brews I have tried, I gave their menu a look, and I was immediately lost.

It was though I got stabbed right in the heart.

The only beer available were several types of IPA and double-IPA. And not knowing one DIPA from another, I blindly chose one IPA and one DIPA. For today's review, I opened the IPA.

Droit au Cœur IPA (6.7% ABV)
Brasserie du Bas-Canada
Gatineau QC

Appearance: a pale, hazy, creamy orangy-yellow, with a thin, white foamy head that almost immediately disappeared and left an effervescent lace on the surface.

Nose: ripe, almost sweet tangerine and grapefruit, with an essence of lime. The aroma is beautifully inviting.

Palate: bitter grapefruit and pine, with a touch of guava in the finish. The piney bitterness burns the back of the throat and leaves a medium finish. Though there's a high amount of alcohol, you can't taste it (trust me, that's a very good thing).

Overall impression: of course, this is not a true IPA. Not in appearance, nor smell, and very little on the taste. It's more of a New England IPA (NEIPA) or east-coast IPA. It's hazy, it's tropical, it's juicy. Yes, like a classic IPA, it's bitter, but that's it.

Did I enjoy it? Yes. Yes I did. Would I drink it again? Yes again.

Would I buy it again? Hmm...

You see, the menu at Brasserie du Bas-Canada was awash in various iterations of IPA. So many that I didn't know which one I should choose. I ended up selecting Droit au Cœur (Straight to the Heart) because I wanted a classic IPA, and now I'm disappointed that this was not one.

If you're going to only label the beer as an IPA, it had better be a classic IPA. I will rate it accordingly.

Beer O'Clock rating: 🍺 + .5

If you like hazy, juicy ales, this is a good one. Go for it. If you want a true IPA, go elsewhere. Yes, this is a harsh judgement but I rate low when a beer doesn't deliver what it advertises, no matter how good it otherwise is.

Sorry, I don't make the rules (actually, for Beer O'Clock, I do).

I'm almost looking forward to the next time that I have to go into the office. Sometimes, my work involves going in and seeing physical devices, things that can't be shared over a computer or Internet connection.

And when I do go in, I'll time it so that I can pay another visit to Brasserie du Bas-Canada.

Cheers!

Frank Clair Stadium

Four Days in the Algarve

This was a tough video to put together.

I was so gung-ho when DW and I were in the Douro Valley, where my cameras were running from the moment we pulled out of São Bento train station until the light faded from the sky, at the end of the day. On that Monday, we had awakened at about 5 am and didn't get to bed until just past 1 am, the next day, and we had to be up at 4 am, when we finished packing, ordered an Uber ride to the Porto airport, and flew to the south of Portugal.

We landed in Faro, in the Algarve region, and took another Uber to the train station, where we travelled for a few more hours until we got to our destination for the next couple of days, Lagos.

My latest YouTube video tells the rest of the story.

We were in this region from Tuesday, September 20, until the Friday, before continuing up to central Portugal and the capital city, Lisbon.

DW didn't see the video until after I posted it to my YouTube channel. When she told me that she had watched it, she said, "It's good but you completely left out Tunes."

"I barely took any photos in Tunes," I said. We had a two-and-a-half-hour rest in this sleepy town, while we waited for our connecting train, but we had possibly the best meal of our entire vacation in this nowhere town.

It was easily the most memorable.

But the fact is that there was so much in the Algarve that I didn't record. I didn't capture our first dinner, at Taninos, which was also one of the best meals, where we took our time while a rain storm raged outside. I didn't capture the end of our hike along the clifftops in Lagos, where we stopped at a beautiful beach and had lunch on a patio.

I didn't record the memory of sitting on the top-floor balcony of our hotel room, in Portimão, while we ate take-away Piri-Piri chicken and drank canned sangria.

The truth is that after the Douro, after we kayaked on the Atlantic off the shores of Lagos, I was tired and feeling uninspired. There were simply times that I wanted to enjoy the moment, relax, and not worry about video-recording everything.

Still, I captured enough footage (it's funny, how, in the digital age, we still say "video footage") to put together some good memories of the four days that we spent in the Algarve. Between still photos and the video that I actually captured, I think it's a decent retrospective.

Have a look:

Lisbon is going to be even more of a challenge, as I captured even less footage. Maybe that's a good thing. For my Lisbon video, I wanted to capture what I thought was the essence of our vacation, not a day-by-day recount. The next video will be short.

I also plan to break it up, where I show a compilation of memories in one video, a day in Belém in another, and a day trip to Cascais in a third.

Small bites.

The work on that video has just begun. Stay tuned.

Spring Walk

Ever since DW became obsessed with pickleball, she's been looking for venues where she can work in a session. Her regular club meets every Tuesday but she's started signing up for Friday and Sunday games.

For the past few weeks, she's managed to get in to a Friday session in Old Ottawa South, where pickleball is held at Hopewell Public School. And afterward, she and a friend go for drinks and a snack at Patty's Pub, a few blocks away.

DW has always invited me to join her, afterwards, but because we only have one car at the moment (Kid 1 has our CR-V while she's at school in the GTA), it's impossible for me to get to Old Ottawa South.

Last Friday, she invited me to meet with her again, and again I reminded her that I had no way to get to that part of town (I wasn't going to pay for an Uber ride and our public transit system would take too long).

"Why don't you come with me," she suggested. "Bring a camera and take photos of the area."

It was a brilliant idea. Last Friday, temperatures were in the low 20s and the sun wouldn't set until nearly 8:00. I've been meaning to get out with my camera, which has gathered dust during the winter months.

I agreed to come along. "I can also grab us a table just before you finish your pickleball," I added.

I walked around Old Ottawa South, capturing graffiti, store fronts, and anything that caught my eye. I shared some of those images a couple of days ago, for Wordless Wednesday.

I eventually made my way northward, to the Bank Street Bridge, and crossed the Rideau Canal into the Glebe, where I wandered around Lansdowne Park and the Frank Clair Stadium, where I was surprised at my ability to get into the south-side stands.

I'll share those photos in a future post.

As the sun set, it started to cool down and I wasn't wearing a jacket, so it was time to keep moving. I made my way to Queen Elizabeth Driveway and toward the underside of the Bank Street Bridge. Not having a tripod, with the waning light, I braced myself against a tree and took my final shot of the evening.

I'm hoping that DW plays pickleball again, this evening, and wants me to come along. I might wander through other neighbourhoods.

Happy Friday!

Beer O'Clock: Hatch

I really shouldn't go beer shopping with DW.

"What about this one?" she would ask, pointing at a colourful can on the shelf in the LCBO. "It looks interesting."

"I've had it. Already reviewed it."

"How about this?"

"Had it."

"This?"

"Done."

"This looks good," she'd say, holding up a can.

"It is good. I've already reviewed it."

"Oh, you like Bellwoods," she said, pointing to a group of various cans and bottles from this Toronto brewery. "Have you had any of those?"

I scanned the shelf. I had had most of them but my eyes fell to a brew that was new to me. "I haven't had this beer," I said, picking up a couple of cans and adding them to my shopping basket, "but I've reviewed Bellwoods a couple of times. I'd like to review something from a brewery that's new to me."

"You don't make this easy," she said.

"It's usually easy when I do this on my own."

The truth is, when I wander the beer aisles of our liquor store, my eyes can quickly scan and rule out any beer that I've already had, where I recognize the can or label. I'll also see the logo of a recognized brewery and tend to keep scanning, always on the lookout for something new.

As DW demonstrated, I've tried a lot of different brews.

But next to the Bellwoods display, my eyes fell on a label that I didn't recognize. And I was unfamiliar with the brewery, so a couple of cans went into my basket.

"So we're done?" DW asked, her tone clearly indicating that our mission had been accomplished and that there was no point in lingering.

When I'm on my own, I would tend to keep looking. I'd fill my basket with several new brews so that I'd have an idea of how many Beer O'Clock reviews I had before me. And my beer fridge had only three cans of beer left in the fridge, all of which had been reviewed. I clearly needed to restock.

But I'd have to wait for another time, when I was shopping for beer on my own.

For now, I had a new Bellwoods brew to enjoy and a completely new brewery (new for me, that is) to explore and share with you. Let's call it a hatchling.

Hatch Pale Ale (5.2% ABV)
Slake Brewing
Prince Edward County ON

Appearance: pours a hazy pale orangy-yellow, similar to a glass of grapefruit juice (grapefruit is prominent in this ale). The head pours a modest white that immediately settles to a thin cap and then dissipates in a fine lace. On a second pour, I was much more aggressive and got a foamy head, but even that didn't last more than a couple of minutes.

Nose: bright, ripe grapefruit.

Palate: the grapefruit hits you right off the bat, with lush, bitter citrus. For a moment, I thought I was actually drinking a fizzy grapefruit juice. But the fruit drops off quickly and I was left with a short, watery finish. On subsequent sips, the bitter hops would coat the mouth but the fruit always fell away.

Overall impression: I always think of a pale ale as a milder version of an India Pale Ale: you get the hops, you get good fruit, but it doesn't wallop you like an IPA. A pale ale is an easy-drinking, sessionable IPA.

Hatch is certainly that, with the light and refreshing citrus aroma and a light body. But for me, I wish the citrus flavours would linger a little longer. I know it sounds like a fine point, but when this ale first filled my mouth, I thought wow, that's a juicy surprise; and then, my delight was abruptly cut short as I swallowed and all the flavour seemed to go down my throat, leaving just a trace of the hops.

After a minute or two of not drinking any of the brew, my taste buds had no memory of it. It's like the ale wasn't fully... hatched.

Now, this could be a good thing if you want to quench your thirst on a hot day and don't want any lingering flavours. This ale goes down well: it's just that when it's gone, it's gone.

Overall, I liked Hatch. And I guess that any beer that leaves you wanting more can be a good thing, right?

Beer O'Clock rating: 🍺🍺

Slake Brewing offers a $10 Ontario shipping rate if you want to order Hatch or any of their other offerings, and Hatch itself can be found in the LCBO.

Cheers!

Ottawa South Stroll

Out With The Old

There are things that I keep beyond their expiry date.

I'm not talking food, though there are some things that I find hidden at the back of the fridge that have evolved into whole new life forms. And on Saturday, after DW and I went to the LCBO to pick up a couple of bottles of port wine (after I completed my YouTube video on Portugal's Douro Valley, both she and I have craved this wonderful, fortified wine), I found an old bottle of a fortified Cabernet Franc, Canadian port-styled wine from 2001 buried at the back of our liquor cabinet.

As I pulled the stopper from the neck of the bottle, it snapped off and the rest of the dried-up cork crumbled into the bottle. There was about a quarter of the bottle left, so for fun, I decided to pour myself a tiny glass—about 10 to 15 millilitres.

What had originally been a crimson-red was now a deep gold. Smelling it, I got definite oxidation but it wasn't offensive, so I bravely took as sip. It was definitely past its prime, tasting more like prune juice than port wine.

The rest of the bottle went down the kitchen sink.

But I also keep things that should be replaced periodically, and over the past two weekends, I've finally said goodbye to a couple of essentials for my kayaking and cycling.

I've always known that if my bicycle helmet ever suffered a fall, even from a short height, it should be replaced. It should also be replaced, regardless of whether it has endured some sort of impact or not, every five to 10 years. Some sources even say that if the helmet is worn regularly, it should be swapped up every three years.

My old helmet is about eight years old, so it's not really beyond the maximum expiry date, but I have worn it fairly regularly, especially over the past three years, when cycling kept me not only fit but sane during the pandemic. When the weather cooperated, I got on my bike at every opportunity.

But after the last ride of 2022, as I hung my bike up for the season, I had my helmet on my handlebars. Just as I was hooking the wheels onto hooks that hung from my garage ceiling, the helmet slipped off.

I have pretty good reflexes and managed to catch the helmet before it hit the pavement. But I didn't have a great grip on it and as my arm came down to my side, I let go of the helmet. It dropped from about knee level.

I cursed but knew that any drop could spell the end for a helmet. And because I had already had the helmet for many years, I knew that come the spring, I'd need a new one.

I chose one with fluorescent yellow on it to stand out. It also has a built-in light at the back, for extra noticeability. If you saw my selfie shot from last Friday, you've seen that helmet.

But that wasn't the only piece of gear that I needed to replace.

DW and I have had our life jackets for many years. At least 10; possibly, 11. We certainly had them when we canoed with the kids, from Kingston to Ottawa, along the Rideau Canal system, but I seem to think that DW and I bought them the year before, when we were canoeing often on Lac Bernard, in her dad's old canoe, and we were contemplating our odyssey.

It was time for a replacement. After three seasons of kayaking with these PFDs, where we'd often complain about how the back panel would rub against the back of our seats, we wanted life vests that gave us ease of movement, some ventilation, and more pockets (our old vests had only one).

Plus, we figured, 10-plus years was a long time for a PFD.

The salesperson at our local sporting goods shop told us that five years was usually the life span for a vest. We were well overdue.

We tried on several vests that ranged in style and price. I felt sticker shock when I saw the price of life jackets: when we bought our old ones, a decade or so ago, at Costco, DW remembers paying about $35 for each of them. The top-two vests that I liked were more than $200.

The one I ultimately chose didn't have as many pockets as the other contender and wasn't my choice for colour (the runner up was a nice fluorescent green), but what sold me was the fact that it was more tapered on the back, which made it less likely to rub against the back rest of my seat, and it had a slightly better fit.

And it was 30-percent off the regular price, which still meant I was paying about four times the price of my old vest. (Incidentally, my new bike helmet was also on sale and cost less than what I paid for my old helmet.)

I can't wait to get my kayak into the water. DW and I were almost tempted to go out on Sunday, but we didn't feel quite prepared. Soon.

So for this season, it's out with the old gear and in with the new. I hope this equipment lasts a long time, though I'll try not to keep them beyond their best-before date.

Out of India, Into Japan

I expected this virtual challenge to last to the beginning of May.

I told myself that I was going to go steadily and take my time. If I covered a modest 18.25 kilometres a day, I could expect to cross the finish line on May 2.

I averaged more than 28 kms each day.

And last week, with the weather becoming summer-like, I was able to get on my road bike. In the past five days, I rode on four of them, covering a total of 163.5 kms. My cycling season is off to a great start.

When I completed a 'short' 21.5K ride to Manotick and back, late yesterday afternoon, I surpassed the 18.6 kms that were remaining in my Golden Triangle India virtual challenge, completing the route and leaving my pace marker at only 62 percent done.

Good for me.

I'm feeling confident about my cycling ability and am confident that I'll have no trouble covering the 70K in the upcoming CN Cycle for CHEO, on May 7. And I'm also ready to start my next virtual challenge more than two weeks ahead of schedule.

My new goal is to complete this route before May 7.

I've virtually left Delhi, India, and have virtually landed in Kyoto, Japan, and have started the 552-km Nakasendo Trail, which starts at Nijō Castle, in Kyoto, and ends in Tokyo. Because I didn't need to use Sunday's step count toward the Golden Triangle challenge, I put them toward my new challenge.

It's a modest 4 kms or so but I was fairly lazy yesterday, until I got on my bike.

I originally planned to finish this trek in 28 days, which means I need to complete just under 20K a day. But because I've proven that I can go much further, especially when the weather lets me take out my road bike, I'm confident that I can get this challenge done in three weeks, if not fewer.

(The start to this week doesn't look conducive to cycling outdoors but I have confidence. Thursday, so far, looks cool but sunny.)

Wish me luck.

Cycling Selfie

It was the first ride of 2023 and the weather was perfect.

At lunchtime on Wednesday, I checked the forecast for the next few hours. It was sunny, the high was going to hit about 17 or 18°C, and the wind was calm, with gusts only reaching about 17 kph.

The wind needs to be a steady 24 with higher gusts for me to seriously weigh whether I'll ride or not.

As soon as my workday was done, I changed into my cycling gear. Though the temperature called for short pants and shirt, I feared that in some sections of my route, where I might encounter shade and sections of the ground that were still deep in snow, I feared that any breeze might act as an air conditioner and make me feel cold.

So I added leg warmers, toe covers, and a lightweight sweater to my apparel. If I got hot, I could always remove layers or unzip my Bicycle Craft Brewery jersey.

I also wanted to test my latest 360-degree camera, so I attached it to a selfie stick and clamped it to the steering neck, just below my handlebars. It looked goofy but, in retrospect, it kept a-hole drivers in check (one came up behind me and started yelling something until he saw the camera, and then he went quiet).

I bought a new helmet a couple of weeks ago. My old, black one was more than a decade old and was dropped at the end of last season: not from a great height—from about knee level—but it wasn't worth the risk. I chose a fluorescent yellow to stand out.

It also matches my cycling gloves.

I wasn't sure how far I would go on my first ride so I planned to get to Manotick and see how I felt. And once I reached this village, I knew I could go further, so I crossed over to River Road and followed it all the way to Roger Stevens Drive, crossed back over the Rideau, and made my way back to Manotick and home.

Fourty-two kilometres.

I did the same ride, yesterday, without the camera.

But on my first ride, I managed to catch myself hanging a left turn, in Manotick, onto Bridge Street.

Of course, with the selfie stick hidden in the camera's stitch line, it looks like someone else captured the image.

I'm taking a break from my bike today. Tomorrow, I may go further. After all, I'm training for a 70K ride on May 7.

Happy Friday!

Throwback Thursday: Daddy-Daughter Moment

I miss my kids.

With one of them away, at college, and the other striking her own way, living in Toronto, I don't get to see them as often as I would like. But Kid 2 is returning, today, for a quick, 24-hour visit, and Kid 1 will be back in just over a week for summer break.

Inevitably, they'll be gone again.

They are independent, not really needing their dad like they used to.

I miss the time when I could pick them up over my head and make them laugh, wanting me to do it again and again. Sometimes, I wish I hadn't gone digging through piles of photos, held in boxes in our basement. This photo, of me holding Kid 1 overhead, brought me joy, remembering those happy days.

And then I felt a pang of sadness, knowing that those days, when I was the centre of her universe, are gone.

Of course, I know my kids love me. But there are times when I long for these kinds of daddy-daughter moments.

Second Appeal

This week, I've told myself that I'm going to get on my road bike. The temperatures are climbing and it looks like some of the main roads are getting cleaned.

The wind has been a bit fierce, so far, with wind gusts up to 50 kph. That's a bit much for my liking.

I'm a fair-weather cyclist, choosing to hit the roads when there's no rain in the forecast, when it's not too hot or too cold, and when the wind is fair.

Except when I've signed up for an event, like the Rideau Lakes Cycle Tour (which I haven't done in years) and the CN Cycle for CHEO, which is coming up in less than a month.

I've been training regularly, getting on my spin bike almost every day. I'm confident that I can complete the 70 kilometres, just as I did last year.

The distance isn't the only reason I sign up for this charitable ride: I do it because I hope that you will help support CHEO's research into fighting cancer in kids. Last year, I set a modest goal of $250 and through the generosity of my supporters, we exceeded that goal.

This year, I've set the same goal and I have a long way to achieve that goal: as of writing this post, there's still $175 to go.

Whether you can give $5, $10, or even $2, your donation means a lot. Please go to my fundraising page and give what you can.

I'm hoping to get on my bike later today, provided that the wind cooperates. I'll also go on a long ride on the weekend.

Together, we can make a difference on May 7.

Rare Find

I'm a terrible birder.

While I find birds to be interesting creatures, I simply don't have the patience to sit for great lengths of time, hoping that one will land close by. When I walk through forests, my eyes are focused more on the path ahead of me than what's going on overhead.

The only time I seem to be able to capture images of our feathered friends is when I happen upon people who have already spotted them and are either capturing images, themselves, or they tell me where I can find something.^*

This happens a lot at Mud Lake, as the real birders get to this Britannia-area nature trail for sunrise, long before I arrive, and they know what they're looking for. Of course, there are common birds that seek DW and me out when they know we're carrying sunflower seeds, but we have never spotted any birds out of the ordinary.

That is, until this past Sunday.

It was a fairly quiet morning at Mud Lake. It was Easter Sunday, after all. But not only were there not as many people on the trails, there were few birds fluttering about. I could hear chickadees in the distance and, high above out of sight, a woodpecker was going to town on a tree. But we didn't see a single nuthatch nor any cardinals.

After a few hundred metres on the trail, without a single bird seeking out DW's outstretched hand of seeds, we decided to head back to the car. Even the birds seemed to be taking a holiday.

Before we returned to the car, we walked down Cassels Street, toward the water filtration plant, and looked through the woods where, last year, we spotted a screech owl sleeping in a tree.

I say we spotted it but there were actually a few people standing at the side of the road, taking their own photos. We spotted them as we stepped out from the trails and were wondering what had caught their attention.

Since that day, DW and I always take a short walk to that spot so see if the owl is in that tree but it never is. And we haven't seen any owls around Mud Lake since then. But it never hurts to try.

Of course, it wasn't there on Sunday, either. But as we walked toward the car, I saw something in a tree on the lake side of the road that caught my attention. It was about the size and shape of an owl but I couldn't quite make it out, so I held my camera up and looked through my 300mm zoom lens.

It wasn't an owl but I didn't know what it was, and it was a bit difficult to see. The sun had the tree back-lit and the bird was obscured by several leafless branches. I tried to move to a better angle to see it, and as I walked further east along the road, I could make out two more similar birds.

When I got to a better vantage on the road for these two birds, the first bird was even more obscured but at least these birds were at a better angle. The tree was actually in Mud Lake, about 20 metres away, and I got to the lake's edge, and realized this was going to be the closest I was going to get. So I took some shots.

DW and I tried to guess what these birds were but had never seen one before. I knew I wasn't going to get any better photos so we decided to head back to the car, and we would look up the birds later.

As we made our way to our car, we passed an elderly woman with a pair of binoculars and we pointed to the birds in the trees, asking her if she had seen them before.

"Oh yes," she said, "those are black-crowned night herons. They're not from around here. They must have flown all night to get here and will sleep most of the day." Without another word, she continued on her way, now that she had conveyed the information.

In the car, DW looked up the birds and confirmed, showing me a photo of them.

"Yup, that's them," I said as I pulled out onto the road.

It would have been nice to see the birds more clearly. Perhaps we should have returned later in the day to see if they had moved or were still there. We could have brought binoculars of our own or my spotting scope that I received from work, for 15 years of service, but rarely removed from their case.

I may be bad at spotting birds but this time, I lucked out. And while an experienced birder was able to identify them for DW and me, I can take pride in knowing that I found them without help.

I wonder what we'll spot next time? Happy Tuesday!

^* That toucan from yesterday's blog post? Yes, I photographed it but that was easy: it was in a cage in the Bronx Zoo.

Covering the Earth

I saw a very good catch phrase that is used by a travel YouTuber couple that encapsulates my very thoughts of life. The phrase was printed on the back of a custom t-shirt for their channel and read, "Cover the Earth before it covers you."

Quite simply, see as much of the world as you can before you're dead and buried.

From my very first solo trip, in 1988, to my travels with DW, family, and friends, the thought of visiting a new country has always stirred excitement and joy in me. I love to travel and hope to continue doing so for as long as I'm able, both physically and financially.

Before DW and I made our recent trip to Mexico, in January, we and some old friends of ours talked about taking a vacation together, to rent a large house, where we all had a common area to eat and relax but could find some private space as well. After thinking about possible locations, one country stood out where we all agreed upon.

Costa Rica.

DW and I have talked about eventually travelling to this Central American country but it's always been a back-burner destination. We would see other countries that were a so-called higher priority for us and then go there. Eventually.

Last week, we bought our airfare and have reserved a few places. We've pieced together a couple of itineraries, depending on what our friends want to do. DW and I will spend a week, exploring this biodiverse country and then meet up with our buddies.

We've got time. Our trip isn't for another 10 months.

But these aren't the only plans we're making.

Some months ago, my parents came to the realization that time isn't on their side. And it's hard for me to come to grips that in another decade, I may not have them around.

My mother has always wanted to go to Italy. In 2009, when DW and I made a promise to take our kids to Tuscany, my mom wanted to come along. Initially, we made plans that could easily accommodate my folks.

But they sat on the fence and couldn't make a commitment. And as time drew near, we made our plans without them.

A few months ago, my mom asked if we would go to Italy with her and my father. Knowing that time is short, I said yes. My mom asked if DW and I could handle the planning, and I said 'no problem.' DW and I are experts at vacation planning.

But because my parents were unsure that they could handle walking around the small towns in Italy, they're first conducting a test. They've wanted to visit my brother, who lives in Arizona, and have flown out to be with him and his family.

My parents plan to spend days walking around Phoenix, Tucson, and possibly Flagstaff. They want to be as active as they can be, and if they can handle it, we'll start booking flights, cars, and accommodation when they return.

My fingers are crossed: but not necessarily for Italy as much as for my parents. I want them to go, but if they decide they can't, DW and I won't go to Italy. We'll go somewhere else.

We want to explore new places.

We love Italy but have been there a couple of times already. If we're travelling without my folks, we'll head somewhere new, keeping hope that someday, we can make my mom's wish come true.

We want to cover the Earth before it covers us.

Easter Surprise

Perhaps it was karma.

There's the adage "karma's a bitch" but sometimes it can be a gift. If what happened on that Easter weekend was, indeed, karma, it took nearly eight years to come around.

His jacket had a pocket for everything: the left pocket held keys to the house, mailbox, and bike lock. The key chain also had a small bottle opener, for just such an occasion. In the right pocket, he stored the keys to his vehicles.

There were two breast pockets: in the right one, he kept a mask for when he was indoors or in close proximity to people; in the left, his smartphone was always handy.

There was a fifth pocket, on the left sleeve, and it was so small that it could only serve one purpose: to hold his small wallet. The wallet was a simple RFID case that could hold about four or five cards. In it, he kept his debit and credit cards, his drivers' license, and his health card. When he worked at his office, it also held his ID badge so that he could gain access to the secured building.

Often, it would hold an emergency $20 bill.

Photo: Wordpress Openverse

On this Saturday morning of the Easter long weekend, his wife sent him on an errand to his local grocery store. They were basically well-stocked with essentials but because this was the Easter weekend, they wanted to have a nice dinner, even though neither were religious nor were both kids at home to participate in the traditional egg hunt.

It would be a small, quiet meal.

He was sent to purchase a small ham, to get some fresh fruit and a couple of vegetables. Because he loved the artisan sausages, he decided to pick up a couple, to cook, crumble, and add to homemade pizzas sometime through the week.

He was a sucker for the store-brand potato chips, so he threw a couple of bags into the cart. And as much as he was addicted to the chips, his wife loved the store-baked Portuguese tarts, so a box also was added.

It was a quick in-and-out of this store, as he desperately wanted to avoid the weekend crowds.

At the check-out lines, he scanned to see which was the shortest, but it was the cashier at the express line who saw him first, called out to him and beckoned him over. He had fewer than the nine-item limit, so he wasted no time in approaching her.

As she tallied his items, his hand went instinctively to his left-arm sleeve. Out of habit, he slapped the small pocket before reaching for the zipper. He wasn't sure why he made this move but perhaps it was just to reassure himself that his wallet was secured in place.

This time, however, his fingers were not met with the resistance of cards in a tiny pouch.

A place for everything and everything in its place, he thought. He was also reminded of a saying that he had heard as a teen: "Put your keys in your right pocket and you'll never go wrong." His car keys always went in his right pocket. House keys in the left. Cell phone, left-breast pocket. His mask was on his face, so the right-breast pocket, where he faithfully kept it, was now empty.

He squeezed his key pockets and only felt metal. He felt the breast pockets, reached into the one with the phone. Nothing.

He almost never put his wallet in his pants pockets but stranger things have happened. Yet, all were empty.

"Oh no," he said to the cashier. "I've left my wallet at home." He then remembered that he had memorized his credit card number. In more than two years of working from home, of ordering items online, he had memorized the 16-digit number, knew the expiry date and the security verification number. "Can you manually enter credit-card details?" He asked the cashier.

"I'm afraid I can't," came the disappointing answer.

A man's voice came to him from behind. "What's the matter?"

He turned to face a tall, smooth-headed man with a black face mask, similar to his own. A name tag hung from his shirt and gave only this man's first name: Chris.

"This is embarrassing," he said, "I seem to have left my wallet at home. I'll have to come back. I'm sorry."

Chris took a look at the checked items and didn't skip a beat. "It's okay," he said, "I've got this." To the cashier, he said, "I'll pay for this."

"No," the man said, "I can be back in 15 minutes."

"I insist," said Chris. "You don't want to have to drive back and forth and go through the line again. This is my treat."

The man had spent the pandemic avoiding close contact with the public. But he didn't hesitate to proffer his hand. Chris took it and their eyes met. "This is very kind of you. I can come back and pay you later."

"No, don't worry about it," said Chris. "Happy Easter."

"Happy Easter," he echoed back.

Chris swiped his employee card and then tapped his credit card. When the cashier handed Chris the receipt, he put it in the man's shopping bin. "You have a great day."

Perhaps it was karma.

Nearly eight years earlier, he had found himself in a line, on Christmas Eve, waiting for an elderly woman to pay for her gifts in a shop. That time, her credit cards were declined and the woman seemed confused and unable to decide her next steps.

When the cashier looked apologetically at the man for the holdup, he held up cash and, with some gestures and silent words, indicated that he would pay for the woman's items, for the cashier to let the elderly woman go.

The cost of her goods came to about $30. On this day, nearly eight years later, in his local and favourite grocery store, another Good Samaritan had paid $32 worth of groceries for him.

What goes around, comes around.

Happy Easter!

The Ice Storm of 2023

I missed The Great Ice Storm of 1998.

At the time, I was living in South Korea and was waiting for my new job to start at Jeonju University. I came home, to Ottawa, about two weeks after the storm and saw some of the destruction, in the form of broken trees, similar to the derecho of last year.

I don't think this ice storm will be as bad as the one more than 25 years ago, but so far it's been an inconvenience.

My house is without power. DW and I are one of the unlucky to be affected by the storm that coated the entire city and region in a thick level of ice. Some trees have snapped under the extra weight but luckily our trees are fine.

We've had so seek shelter at my parents' house, a short distance away but that has it's electricity. For now.

It really is time for us to get a generator.

Wherever you are, I hope you're safe.

The End of the Cup

I love coffee. Unfortunately, coffee doesn't love me anymore.

I remember the days of when I worked in the Merivale Mall and the coffee franchise, Treats, moved into the spot across the mall from Black's Cameras, when Black's vacated that very spot to move into a larger space. I worked in the camera store and would pop across the hallway to grab a cup several times through the day.

Treats eventually moved out and The Second Cup moved in, and my consumption increased. The coffee was much better and I developed a pseudo-addiction to the Irish Cream flavoured selection.

When I left the camera store to work at the CIBC, just around the corner, near the main entrance to the mall, my consumption didn't change. In fact, it increased when I moved from a part-time position to full-time. Being one of the staff members who got into the branch an hour before opening, to power up the computers, open the safe, and unlock the boxes that held bank drafts, traveller's cheques, and cash.

I would stop at The Second Cup to grab a large cup of Irish Cream coffee before entering the bank. Not being a morning person, I needed the cup to wake me up. The person who opened the branch with me and who held the secondary combination that was required to start the computers and open the safe was also not a morning person, and we wouldn't say a word to one another throughout our routine. I would work on one end of the branch and the other person worked on the other end, and we would pass each other with no more than a grunt, at best, as we continued putting in our codes and combination numbers.

By the time we were done, my coffee would be empty and other employees would be coming into the branch. As soon as we had at least two other people with equal authority on site, my morning colleague and I would head to The Second Cup: me, for my... ahem... second cup; her, for her first.

I would grab a coffee on my morning break, at lunch, on my afternoon break, and just before we closed our doors for the day, to have one to drink while we balanced our tills, shut down the computers, and lock everything away.

By the time I left the branch for the day, I had consumed six large cups of coffee.

I did this five days a week for about four years.

Over the decades since my time at the bank, my coffee consumption has decreased dramatically, though there was rarely a day that I didn't have at least one cup of coffee. During our first year in Korea, DW and I found it hard to get a good cup of coffee, though we did find a few coffee shops that served okay coffee and there were vending machines that dispensed something that resembled coffee and was addictive.

I wrote about those machines in my novel.

In our second year in Korea, DW and I brought a French press, a mini-grinder, and several bags of coffee beans with us after a brief trip home. I'd have a couple of cups each day, at least.

For as long as DW and I have lived together, we've had coffee machines. I think her consumption increased when we started dating and these days, her consumption has surpassed mine.

At my current job, which I've held for nearly 17 years, I've always had access to coffee. I went from drinking four cups per day, to three cups, to about two when the pandemic hit and I started working from home. And even though I have an endless supply of coffee in the house, I'd start my workday with one large cup and quit there.

You see, I used to put sugar in my coffee but when I started gaining weight in the first months of the pandemic—probably due to consuming more beer and ordering in food more often—I decided to cut the sugar from my coffee. And I quickly learned that there was a problem.

After just one cup of coffee, my heart rate would increase, so much that my smart watch would tell me to take a break and relax, and I was only sitting at my desk!

It took me a while to realize that it was the coffee that was causing my heart to pound in my chest. As soon as I put two and two together, I took a break from drinking coffee. I would only have it on weekends and I would only have a small cup. But that didn't solve the fact that when I drank coffee, my heart would jump to as high as 120 beats per minute.

One morning, when DW and I went to a restaurant for a Sunday brunch, I had a coffee and, out of an old habit, I added sugar to my cup. And to my surprise, my heart didn't race after finishing my second cup.

I don't know why sugar made a difference, but it did.

I still limited my coffee consumption to weekends but when I had a cup, I'd put a bit of sugar in with it. However, that solution didn't last for long.

A few weeks ago, DW and I joined some friends for a brunch in Westboro and I had just one cup of coffee, with sugar. When we were finished, DW and I headed home to get some chores done.

But by the time we reached home, my heart was racing and my head ached, and I had to lie down. For the rest of the day, I felt jittery and my stomach was upset.

I blamed the coffee.

I love coffee. I really do. But for some reason, it no longer cares for me. I've decided to stop drinking it altogether. I've gone back to drinking tea, which is something that I did as a kid and young teen, when I lived at home with my parents and before I discovered the joy of coffee.

Except while in Korea. I drank a lot of tea in Korea.

Since then, my average resting heart rate has even dropped below what I previously had considered normal for me (about 80 or so bpm).

I miss coffee but I'll survive. I still enjoy the smell of it when DW makes herself a small pot each morning or runs herself a pod of Nespresso in the afternoon. But I won't miss how coffee made me feel.

Now, if I ever develop an adverse reaction to bacon, that's how it will end for me, my friends.

Scattered Memories

I had written a post for last Friday, but because of a missing photograph, I ended up not posting it.

I may post it for an upcoming Photo Friday post if I find that photo, but my hopes are waning. You see, the photo in question is a printed, 35mm film photograph, and it seems as though I've misplaced the entire series of prints from that event.

That event, by the way, was DW's and my trip to Italy, in 2004. And it was the trip where I was transitioning from 35mm film to digital photography.

Just before that vacation, DW and I were considering getting a pocket camera for the trip, as DW was tired of carrying her SLR and our existing compact cameras were getting toward the end of their life. My Nikon One Touch, which I had bought in the late 80s, had a broken flash: the Pentax ESPIO 115 camera that we had bought while we were in Korea never took great pictures and we had a battery leak in it. After cleaning it up, it was never reliable again.

We still have it kicking around
and it still works.
All 3.2 megapixels.

We figured it was time to try one of those new-fangled digital cameras, so we bought a Canon PowerShot A70. DW used this camera while I still hung onto my Minolta X-700 (though, I did take a couple of shots with the new camera).

When we returned home from the trip, I submitted my film to our local camera shop (the one in which I had worked for many years) and we burned photos from the digital camera onto a CD. We also printed a couple of our favourite digital shots.

When I picked up the prints, I also purchased a photo album to hold all of our recorded memories. DW and I were going to make a scrapbook of this trip to Tuscany and Cinque Terre.

Of course, in 2004, we had a three-year-old and a one-year-old that were our prime objects of attention and we were focused on caring for them that we never found time for assembling our scrapbook. And when we had two bundles of joy, why would we want to take time to organize photographs?

Nineteen years later, I have no idea where the photo album or the printed photographs went. Last Thursday, as I searched for the one photograph that I wanted to add to Friday's post, I came to the realization that they are lost to the abyss that is our basement.

Decades ago, I was really good at organizing my photos. I had binder-style albums that held pocketed sheets, each sheet held four 4 x 6 photographs per side. I have at least a dozen of those large albums, packed to bursting with photos that date back to the 1970s.

I have several binders full of 35mm negatives, each page labelled with the subject and date. And I have more albums, similar to the print albums, that hold thousands of slides.

As I searched for the photos of our 2004 Italy trip, I came across shoe boxes that were stuffed with random photographs. It seems that sometime, in the early 90s, I stopped being so organized.

There are a lot of memories in those shoe boxes and I just might share some in upcoming Throwback Thursday blog posts, but these memories are as scattered as the photos seem to be.

Over the weekend, I also searched the old CDs that contain our digital memories. I've started pulling those files and organizing them into the photo database that I now keep on several portable hard drives.

At least those aren't scattered.

The search for the lost Italy photos continues.