Tulip tree, Vancouver.
Voyager 1 (false colour) image of Jupiter's Great Red Spot.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Natural Beauty
Edge-on spiral galaxy.
Tulip tree, Vancouver.
Voyager 1 (false colour) image of Jupiter's Great Red Spot.
Tulip tree, Vancouver.
Voyager 1 (false colour) image of Jupiter's Great Red Spot.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Pamela The Gardener
If you're smart, you're smart, regardless of any formal education.
She had the most beautiful garden in the neighbourhood, easily besting the ghetto of Chinese yards choked by the weed-like tendrils of squash and melon. The little plot of her rental home often drew admirers and visitors in better days, but this became especially pronounced during the week before it all came to an end. A steady stream of fellow gardeners came by that final week with shovels and containers to take away whatever was proffered that caught their fancy.
She and her husband were in their sixties. I had no idea what they did for a living or if they were retired. Her husband did mention to me late one night in slightly accented English (we were looking at a star cluster through my telescope) that he had once studied navigational astronomy back in Israel. She spoke with a British lilt, wore glasses, and donned a bonnet whenever it was sunny. She looked, sounded, and acted like somebody with a formal education.
On the day before the bulldozer was scheduled to arrive, I lamented to her about the loss of her garden and her predicament—and for the first time asked what her name was. It was Pamela. Pamela, lover of flowers and trees, neighbour of ten years.
The new neighbour's yard is barren, home to neither leaf nor bee.
I took November 7th off to take my mother-in-law to Mount Saint Joseph Hospital to get her cataract removed. In the waiting room was a thin caucasian woman, probably in her late sixties, a splitting image of Pamela. Aha!, I thought to myself, a formally educated woman, no doubt a biology major. Fortuitously, I was able to confirm my hunch, for she effectively recounted her whole life story to the person sitting beside her. She and her husband live on Cortes Island. Her husband was the one in for a procedure. He was once a tenured professor and was called to the bar. She attended the University of Toronto and took some biochemistry. I raptly listened to her tale about her undergrad calculus course taught by Lister Sinclair. He was apparently a strange bird for whom the teaching post was merely a stepping stone to the CBC. For his lectures, he would scribble equations on the blackboard, without explanation, and then leave the classroom. But if somebody were to ask him about yesterday's concert, he would stop in his tracks, put down the chalk, and spend the rest of the hour talking about the arts. The class was so freaked out that nobody showed up to write the first term final exam. Sinclair made no mention of this absenteeism at the beginning of the second term.
I went by myself to Quiznos last week to take advantage of the about-to-expire "buy one get one free" sandwich deal. Behind me in the lineup were two guys in their late twenties, sharing the same coupon. This particular Quiznos caters to a mixed clientele—there were people in construction cheek by jowl with high-tech office workers—but for some reason, these two stood out in the crowd. I made a mental note that these guys looked well-read, educated, and had they had the chance, probably would've gone to the Deep South to protest segregation. On my way out, I caught a glimpse of them at their table. On it lay a copy of Scientific American, Richard Ford's The Sportswriter, and John Grisham's The Broker (two out of three ain't bad).
You know what? I'm getting pretty darn good at reading people solely based on dress and looks.
***
She had the most beautiful garden in the neighbourhood, easily besting the ghetto of Chinese yards choked by the weed-like tendrils of squash and melon. The little plot of her rental home often drew admirers and visitors in better days, but this became especially pronounced during the week before it all came to an end. A steady stream of fellow gardeners came by that final week with shovels and containers to take away whatever was proffered that caught their fancy.
She and her husband were in their sixties. I had no idea what they did for a living or if they were retired. Her husband did mention to me late one night in slightly accented English (we were looking at a star cluster through my telescope) that he had once studied navigational astronomy back in Israel. She spoke with a British lilt, wore glasses, and donned a bonnet whenever it was sunny. She looked, sounded, and acted like somebody with a formal education.On the day before the bulldozer was scheduled to arrive, I lamented to her about the loss of her garden and her predicament—and for the first time asked what her name was. It was Pamela. Pamela, lover of flowers and trees, neighbour of ten years.
The new neighbour's yard is barren, home to neither leaf nor bee.
***
I took November 7th off to take my mother-in-law to Mount Saint Joseph Hospital to get her cataract removed. In the waiting room was a thin caucasian woman, probably in her late sixties, a splitting image of Pamela. Aha!, I thought to myself, a formally educated woman, no doubt a biology major. Fortuitously, I was able to confirm my hunch, for she effectively recounted her whole life story to the person sitting beside her. She and her husband live on Cortes Island. Her husband was the one in for a procedure. He was once a tenured professor and was called to the bar. She attended the University of Toronto and took some biochemistry. I raptly listened to her tale about her undergrad calculus course taught by Lister Sinclair. He was apparently a strange bird for whom the teaching post was merely a stepping stone to the CBC. For his lectures, he would scribble equations on the blackboard, without explanation, and then leave the classroom. But if somebody were to ask him about yesterday's concert, he would stop in his tracks, put down the chalk, and spend the rest of the hour talking about the arts. The class was so freaked out that nobody showed up to write the first term final exam. Sinclair made no mention of this absenteeism at the beginning of the second term.
***
I went by myself to Quiznos last week to take advantage of the about-to-expire "buy one get one free" sandwich deal. Behind me in the lineup were two guys in their late twenties, sharing the same coupon. This particular Quiznos caters to a mixed clientele—there were people in construction cheek by jowl with high-tech office workers—but for some reason, these two stood out in the crowd. I made a mental note that these guys looked well-read, educated, and had they had the chance, probably would've gone to the Deep South to protest segregation. On my way out, I caught a glimpse of them at their table. On it lay a copy of Scientific American, Richard Ford's The Sportswriter, and John Grisham's The Broker (two out of three ain't bad).
You know what? I'm getting pretty darn good at reading people solely based on dress and looks.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Good Morning Panwalla
Betty's been obsessed with mastering Kuku Paka, an Ismaili chicken curry dish. Ismaili cooking incorporates the flavours of Arabia with its northern Indian origins.The definitive English-language Ismaili cookbook appears to be Volumes I and II of Noorbanu Nimji's A Spicy Touch. Betty recalls seeing both volumes many years ago at a discount book bin but picked up only the first volume. So the hunt was on for volume II to complete the set. Sadly, volume II is no longer available at Amazon. Zilcho at Chapters. And even AbeBooks and Alibris came up empty. Fortunately, Betty was told by a co-worker that a store by the rather amusing name of Good Morning Panwalla on Main Street carried the titles.
We got there first thing last Saturday morning, too early, it turns out. While waiting for the store to open, I snapped the shot of the blue-eyed redhead you see here. In the end, the store didn't have the book in stock. The owner said to come back next Saturday.
***
On the subject of India, I had lunch with the contemporary Bengaluru philosopher S. Sathyaprakash. The proper life, he posited, adheres toSimple living and high thinking.
I've been thinking exactly along these lines for the past while. A spartan, uncluttered life leaves a small environmental footprint, and more importantly, affords (at least in theory) the time to enjoy and contemplate what we do have. In one sense, a quiet, modest, contemplative existence versus a loud, vain, exploitative one. To be or to have. To sweep or to vacuum.
Ironically, the few individuals I know who seem to live by these precepts I can only describe as Zen masters in distress.
***
BTW, here's a shot of Kuku Paka as served at the Samosa Garden restaurant.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Something To Brighten Up The Wet Weekend
We've been breaking daily rainfall records here in southwestern British Columbia, which pretty much spelled the end of the fall foliage photo-ops season. Here are two shots taken on the afternoon of October 22, 2006, before the rains, of a maple across the street from where I live. Had I an ultrawide angle lens, the first picture below would've been a spectacular fan of yellow and blue.
What would nature be without decay? Here are some rotting leaves lying on the street against the curb. An occupant of a nearby house said hello and asked if I was checking out my new camera. He was leaving for a fishing trip.
If one takes the time to dig a little deeper, even the mundane can take on a new life. I spent much of that afternoon collecting leaves. It turns out that there are no fewer than three types of maples lining the street—Sycamore Maples, Norways, and what I take to be Sugar Maples. This would explain the different colours and why certain trees shed their leaves earlier. It's taken me 12 years to realize this, far too long. My profound lack of knowledge about trees [I have to keep reminding myself that they too have DNA] prompted me yesterday to order this wonderful book, The Tree, by Colin Tudge.
Because I've been saving up for a digital SLR—right now it looks like the Pentax K10D—the book buying has calmed down significantly. However, I did drop by an A&B Sound store, a deserted one, I might add, to pick up a Neko Case DVD, and a Madeleine Peyroux CD. This disc, Officium, of ancient choral music (some dating back to before the 12th century), accompanied by a saxophone, has been spending some time in my CD players lately.
What would nature be without decay? Here are some rotting leaves lying on the street against the curb. An occupant of a nearby house said hello and asked if I was checking out my new camera. He was leaving for a fishing trip.
If one takes the time to dig a little deeper, even the mundane can take on a new life. I spent much of that afternoon collecting leaves. It turns out that there are no fewer than three types of maples lining the street—Sycamore Maples, Norways, and what I take to be Sugar Maples. This would explain the different colours and why certain trees shed their leaves earlier. It's taken me 12 years to realize this, far too long. My profound lack of knowledge about trees [I have to keep reminding myself that they too have DNA] prompted me yesterday to order this wonderful book, The Tree, by Colin Tudge.
Because I've been saving up for a digital SLR—right now it looks like the Pentax K10D—the book buying has calmed down significantly. However, I did drop by an A&B Sound store, a deserted one, I might add, to pick up a Neko Case DVD, and a Madeleine Peyroux CD. This disc, Officium, of ancient choral music (some dating back to before the 12th century), accompanied by a saxophone, has been spending some time in my CD players lately.
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