http://www.cwb.org/
Monday, November 2, 2009
Sunday Sail on Lake Union
Yesterday, Sou and I headed to The Center for Wooden Boats on Lake Union in Seattle. The Center showcases Northwest maritime culture and also offers a free afternoon sailing on Sundays. The wind was a little calm, but it was great to float around Lake Union on a sunny afternoon.
http://www.cwb.org/
http://www.cwb.org/
Flying around Puget Sound and the Olympic Peninsula
Scott invited us to tag along on his afternoon training flight. We took off from Tacoma Narrows airport and flew over the Olympic Mountains and out along the peninsula. Awesome. Here are a few photos that I took from Scott's phone (forgot the camera again...)
Halloween Wedding
Sou and I tied the knot again weekend in Tacoma. Thanks to all who took part in our traditional Lao wedding
Photos: Gabriel "Toaster" Nagmay
Friday, October 30, 2009
Fun with Holga
I recently picked up a new Holga camera. These cameras are cheap plastic medium format film cameras that are well known for vignetting and light leaks.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Farewell Portland
Sou and I woke up early to pick up our moving truck. We picked up the our truck but Penske didn't have the car carrier. No bother, we headed home and loaded up the truck and cleaned the apartment.
When we arrived back at Penske, the still didn't have the car carrier. Fortunately, Penske (thanks Joyce!) offered to pay for our lunch while we waited for the carrier. So we enjoyed lunch at a Hawaiian restaurant on Sandy before getting our car loaded and heading out of Portland.
When we arrived back at Penske, the still didn't have the car carrier. Fortunately, Penske (thanks Joyce!) offered to pay for our lunch while we waited for the carrier. So we enjoyed lunch at a Hawaiian restaurant on Sandy before getting our car loaded and heading out of Portland.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Harvest
By Louise Glück from A Village Life
It's autumn in the market—
not wise anymore to buy tomatoes.
They're beautiful still on the outside,
some perfectly round and red, the rare varieties
misshapen, individual, like human brains covered in red oilcloth—
Inside, they're gone. Black, moldy—
you can't take a bite without anxiety.
Here and there, among the tainted ones, a fruit
still perfect, picked before decay set in.
Instead of tomatoes, crops nobody really wants.
Pumpkins, a lot of pumpkins.
Gourds, ropes of dried chilies, braids of garlic.
The artisans weave dead flowers into wreaths;
they tie bits of colored yarn around dried lavender.
And people go on for a while buying these things
as though they thought the farmers would see to it
that things went back to normal:
the vines would go back to bearing new peas;
the first small lettuces, so fragile, so delicate, would begin
to poke out of the dirt.
Instead, it gets dark early.
And the rains get heavier; they carry
the weight of dead leaves.
At dusk, now, an atmosphere of threat, of foreboding.
And people feel this themselves; they give a name to the season,
harvest, to put a better face on these things.
The gourds are rotting on the ground, the sweet blue grapes are finished.
A few roots, maybe, but the ground's so hard the farmers think
it isn't worth the effort to dig them out. For what?
To stand in the marketplace under a thin umbrella, in the rain, in the cold,
no customers anymore?
And then the frost comes; there's no more question of harvest.
The snow begins; the pretense of life ends.
The earth is white now; the fields shine when the moon rises.
I sit at the bedroom window, watching the snow fall.
The earth is like a mirror:
calm meeting calm, detachment meeting detachment.
What lives, lives underground.
What dies, dies without struggle.
_______________________________________________
The days are growing short, leaves litter the ground, the rains have come again. It's time to migrate to warmer climes!
It's autumn in the market—
not wise anymore to buy tomatoes.
They're beautiful still on the outside,
some perfectly round and red, the rare varieties
misshapen, individual, like human brains covered in red oilcloth—
Inside, they're gone. Black, moldy—
you can't take a bite without anxiety.
Here and there, among the tainted ones, a fruit
still perfect, picked before decay set in.
Instead of tomatoes, crops nobody really wants.
Pumpkins, a lot of pumpkins.
Gourds, ropes of dried chilies, braids of garlic.
The artisans weave dead flowers into wreaths;
they tie bits of colored yarn around dried lavender.
And people go on for a while buying these things
as though they thought the farmers would see to it
that things went back to normal:
the vines would go back to bearing new peas;
the first small lettuces, so fragile, so delicate, would begin
to poke out of the dirt.
Instead, it gets dark early.
And the rains get heavier; they carry
the weight of dead leaves.
At dusk, now, an atmosphere of threat, of foreboding.
And people feel this themselves; they give a name to the season,
harvest, to put a better face on these things.
The gourds are rotting on the ground, the sweet blue grapes are finished.
A few roots, maybe, but the ground's so hard the farmers think
it isn't worth the effort to dig them out. For what?
To stand in the marketplace under a thin umbrella, in the rain, in the cold,
no customers anymore?
And then the frost comes; there's no more question of harvest.
The snow begins; the pretense of life ends.
The earth is white now; the fields shine when the moon rises.
I sit at the bedroom window, watching the snow fall.
The earth is like a mirror:
calm meeting calm, detachment meeting detachment.
What lives, lives underground.
What dies, dies without struggle.
_______________________________________________
The days are growing short, leaves litter the ground, the rains have come again. It's time to migrate to warmer climes!
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Harvest Season
The falls
We crossed the border back into the US at Niagara Falls on Labor Day weekend. Being a holiday on both sides of the border, the falls were inundated with people. Crossing the border, customs officials wouldn't let us use the pedestrian bridge, so were were forced to wait in the traffic jam of vehicles on the bridge. It was a bit daunting waiting in line for customs with several hundered vehicles.
After crossing back into the US, we rode over to the Erie Canal Trail along the Erie Canal. The canal was once a major transportation route to upstate New York, which helped in fostering the economic development of New York City. Now the canal is no longer used for commercial purposes. The canal trail was 80 miles of perfectly flat, crushed gravel, with NO CARS. This was a nice break from the shoulder-less roads of Canada. The canal passes through small, sleepy towns. After reluctantly getting off the canal trail, we headed north along the coast of Lake Ontario. We've also gotten back into some rolling hills, which we haven't experienced in at least a thousand miles or so. The roads of NY state are fantastic. The shoulders are so wide that it's almost as if they're bike lanes.
Harvest season is in full swing. We pedal through apple and peach orchards, vineyards, and corn fields. Further west it was fields of wheat, sugar beets, and soy beans. There are farm stands at almost every turn and the eatin' is good. We've been feasting on fresh fruit, apple cider, and of course.... pies!
--
After a few weeks on the road, the life of cross country cyclist becomes pretty routine. We wake up shortly after sunrise and pack up camp. We either eat an appetizing breakfast of granola bars and fruit or head to a nearby cafe/diner. After breakfast we pedal throughout the morning breaking for water, snacks or to consult the map. Lunch is usually another diner or a quick trip into a grocery store. Back on the bikes, we pedal into the afternoon, usually stopping for diner at yet another restaurant. We find a place to camp for the evening and set up camp, relax, and read. Then repeat.
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