The Bibliomaniac and the apprentice – honed their craft in Muskoka
What led to this house of books?

It’s fitting I chose David Brown, a legendary bibliomaniac as my mentor. I’ve always gravitated toward the eccentrics amongst us. Be they poet, historian, philosopher or artist, I’ve enjoyed many moments in company of wild thinkers and visionaries extraordinaire.
Instead of getting a hand-up from a bibliophile, who acquires books on a moderate, sensible, proportionate level, my apprenticeship with Dave Brown, was like trying to read a book while running to catch the open door of a whizzing-along freight train. Dave Brown did nothing without careful planning. He knew what to expect after pounding a square peg into a round hole. He’d scoop up the splinters and demonstrate how to make the peg square again. Everything was a demonstration. When he was toppled into the brine while trying to ferry a wood stove in a small boat, over to the mainland of Muskoka’s Wood Lake, he blamed everyone else but himself for the mishap. If Dave had made it to the other side of the lake, he somehow would have taken credit for inspiring the mission in the first place. Not because he was a glory hound. He just didn’t like being wrong. Or second fiddle. He spent a half hour that day, telling me about all the wrong moves everybody else made on that ill-fated stove-moving voyage, while bleeding all over my shop from a nasty gash on his leg. Did I mention that this outdoors expert, book collector, historian, was deathly afraid of hospitals and dentists?
I loved this guy. He was the kind of character you watch in life not because he does everything right, but because he’s so amazing doing everything opposite to convention. The only protocol Dave understood out on the old-book hustings, was the “bull-in-the-china-shop” strategy. You know, the “take no prisoners,” “smoke ‘em if you’ve got ‘em,” attitude. Like landing a helicopter in a mature hay field, everything would hit the fan when Brownie cut loose at an estate book sale. It was like watching a Jackson Pollock painting in progress. For the robustness of frame, Dave was agile when need arose. Except when trying to balance a three hundred pound iron stove in a runabout.
I wrote the biography of the now deceased Mr. Brown. Shortly after he was diagnosed with a life threatening condition, he asked me if I’d be interested in co-authoring the biography. As it turned out he didn’t live up to his part of the deal. I was left alone to write a story about a character I doubt even Dickens could have dreamt up. I was as close to him as anyone for our few precious years together, when he taught me about the gall and tenacity required to out-play competing book collectors and dealers. When we weren’t talking about old books, we were discussing outdoor education. He was one of the early movers and shakers in the provincial outdoor education program for Ontario Public Schools, and his classroom in Hamilton, was legendary for its massive collection of live things, pickled things, and all things large and curious gathered from the woodlands. Any kid that visited his classroom, situated within a hair’s breadth of the Botanical Gardens, will have memory of Mr. Brown for the balance of their lives. He was to some contemporaries, an alchemist, in the way he held spellbound an audience. A medicine show peddler. A mad hatter, an enchanter! A story teller! The kids loved the show, indoors and out.
Believe me, that’s a good thing. You simply couldn’t have Dave Brown as an instructor of anything without it imprinting forever. I traveled on many nature walks with Dave here in Muskoka, and I never arrived home that I wasn’t making another play date with my burly book loving guru-guide.
The reason Dave and I got along so well is that we had a mutual, deep-seeded hatred for both complacency and restriction. I was kicked out of Cub Scouts in my first month for insubordination. I didn’t see eye to eye with the leader and I made a few suggestions about the group’s dynamic he didn’t particularly like. So out the door I went. Dave thrived in his incredibly diversified outdoor education centre, and in the wilds, whether on a trail or in a canoe. When he was ordered back into a regular classroom, due to budget cutbacks, he began to falter within days of the new posting. If illness hadn’t forced him to retire, the phobia of a closed, restrictive, uninspiring workplace, would have hastened resignation
As an editor with the community press, here in Muskoka, I, on the other hand, was the spitting image of “good, controlled, steadfast management.” Until that is, I felt the publisher’s chin on my shoulder, watching me compose an editorial. Which isn’t cool in any newsroom, I’m sure you can appreciate. To get his attention I’d slip in a few words, rather directives onto the typed page (back in those days) that might have, for example, read as follows: “get your lips off my neck unless you’re the woman of my dreams!” Usually got their attention but generally I’d just start growling and muttering dangerous eventualities, until finally my overseer would sense the danger of the editor with a pounding hangover, and a nearing deadline.
I heard more than one disenchanted publisher suggest I was a “tempest out of the teapot,” and “quite incorrigible that Mr. Currie.” I always worked hard for my employer, and I turned out copy in volume, without error, and always, always on schedule. I was one of few staff members who actually loved the work…..for what I might suggest was the crappiest pay. The problem was I couldn’t find a publisher I actually looked up to, and believed had any modicum of writing wisdom to bestow an apprentice. Most were “fops,” and I was forced to make up for their constant shortfalls, by working longer and harder, with greater resolve that, one day……one day I’d strike out on my own in this writing game. All the underlings worked in pretty much the same fashion, so the big wheels could keep on turning. I don’t now how many times I was kept from attempting some form of strangulation on a publisher or managing editor, who would take a compliment about the week’s newspaper, sometimes even in front of us, and never once say…..”well,… all the credit goes to my hardworking, accomplished staff.” I worked with many exceptional writers, photographers and graphic artists back in those now hazy, easy to forget newspaper days, many who have gone on to prove themselves tenfold in a more appreciative environment.
When Dave Brown and I met up, it was a brutal collision of irreverent, somewhat worse for wear souls. Dave had a lot of disenchantment for much of the same reason I felt short-changed by my profession, and the more miles through the hinterland we walked, the more we recognized our problem was simply a matter of dysfunctional interpersonal skills. His compassion and work relationship was with the kids. He couldn’t stand manipulators and glad-handers around him, who liked to take full credit for things they only played a minor role in creating. Just as I felt about upper management swiping my personal milestones, as their inherent property, Dave concurred. It was in free enterprise, beyond the grasp of our fetters, that we were destined to thrive.
As Dave Brown was known for being tenacious yet persuasive to get into the inner sanctum of anyone who had a large collection of books potentially for sale, I was the “sleeper,” who found sources and collections where Dave had assumed nothing of interest would prevail. Out on the old book trail he and I were critiqued on more than a few occasions by our competitors, as a couple of crusty old codgers, who wouldn’t know a valuable book if it bit them on the respective arse.
The day a new managing editor told me that he was, to quote, “going to nurture us reporters as his special flowers,” I began planning immediately for career number two. I launched “Birch Hollow Antiques,” in 1986 and spent a lot of time preparing for the day I’d take a watering can myself, and nurture the boss proactively…..and frankly, if it hadn’t been for the calming influence of my new bride, Suzanne, I might have watered myself out of a job a lot sooner. It had become almost a fantasy how I would one day soon water this guy into unemployment. As it turned out, upper management liked his style, and the “nurturing” analogy. I had no choice but to get away from these knobs….before I started talking to my mates the same way.
The asset I brought to my new business, moreso than a large volume of antiquities to sell, was that I was used to doing a lot “with a little;” simply meaning that I had survived the newspaper business with a shilling to spare on a pint per week, so building my own business by scrounging the flea market circuit to get inventory, was an acceptable, affordable, workable means to an end. When my associate antique dealers today critique our business, “cause they’re flummoxed by our survival,” and our “nose in the air,” arrogant demeanor, they’ve actually fallen for the trap Dave and I used to employ on the book hustings. Let them preoccupy trying to figure what we’re going to do next, and the philosophy of why, and we shall just load our purchases in the car for the celebratory trip home. While we’re being studied, overviewed, dissected and analyzed, I guess we just didn’t have cause to bother ourselves with the focus of limelight. Afterall, we had work to do, books to scout-out, antiques and collectables to box and ship, and deals to shake on before dinner. Dave and I were pretty set on the Canadian standard of meal-time as the essence of true contentment and good humor, after a successful, fulfilling day’s work. He wouldn’t eat vegetables. Can you believe it?
Dave Brown was what the antique business would call “the phantom” of a sale. The “dark horse!” The person you would least expect could be smarter than you! I remember Dave arriving at my former antique shop in Bracebridge and asking me if he could stay over at our house, so that he could attend the next day’s charity book sale at the Anglican Church, in Bracebridge. He realized by my startled look that I hadn’t known about the sale in advance. He let out a Homer Simpson “Doa!” and already the competition between mates had turned up a notch. Of course he came to view this as an acceptable loss of insider’s information because afterall he was getting a warm bed and all the books he could fondle overnight, as our house guest. All night he kept emphasizing that we should get to the sale at well before ten a.m. the next morning, as the minister had warned him to expect a long line of eager book buyers. I did twig to the fact he had already jumped ahead of me by meeting with the sale host, and undoubtedly picking up some details about books included in the sale. Dave by the way would only buy non-fiction. In the morning my wife was looking out the window, as Brownie did a hop-skip and jump down the driveway toward his truck, and seemed gleeful as he poked his head out of the window to back out of the lane. “I wonder where Dave’s going,” she said, as I arrived at the breakfast table for the first sip of coffee…., where by the way I expected to see Dave sitting, “book pressed to face.” He had terrible eyesight but wouldn’t get glasses.
When I arrived at the Bracebridge sale, sure enough there was a large crowd. I stood in line for about twenty minutes and when the door was finally opened, I was the occupier of the 41st position from the arch into the sale. So imagine this scene if you can; the ever boastful Mr. Brown emerging with the minister’s assistance, and I think a package of cookies as a bonus, carrying two substantial boxes of old books. Ones obviously he had selected and purchased with the minister’s blessing, before the sale had officially begun. “See you back at home Ted….got the books I wanted!” Now how could you get mad and stay mad when you’re beaten-out so effectively by the friendly competition. I should have jumped into the car and trailed him all the way to the church door, if I wanted to be his equal. As the church achieved success for their part in the book sale, Mr. Brown got some exceptional Canadiana, Americana, and natural sciences. I got a badly needed lesson, and a few interesting biographies he’d blown by in his haste.
On another occasion, at an estate sale in the community of Bala, I watched Dave meet his unexpected equal, while trying to barter for some “not for sale” books. We had gone together that summer morning, and Dave already had some books reserved. I had been approached by the family earlier that same week, interested in selling off a considerable amount of furniture, collectables, glassware, china and of course books, from their father’s cottage on the Moon River. The family was tremendously obliging in every way, and were prepared to meet whenever I could attend to make an initial appraisal. I offered Dave a sneak preview and that generated into a solo visit due to a situation that had arisen at our Bracebridge shop. Dave was going to get a list of items we would both be interested in, and then visit together the next morning to make the purchase offer on the contents. As Dave was the expert at friendly skullduggery, he came back with ninety percent of what “he” wanted, and informed me there were still “a few things you’d be interested in Ted,” meaning “fat chance” anything of significant value remained in that cottage. He even scored some baked treats offered by the family. Without question Dave was one of those likeable sorts you initially felt sorry for….because he was always dressed like a hobo and looked as if he hadn’t enjoyed a good meal in years. Even my wife always gave Dave the last tart, the last brownie, the list goes on!
As I was compelled that evening to listen to Dave’s coup at the Bala estate, he obsessively plotted out a plan to secure some titles of western Americana that a grandson had refused to sell. If you refused Dave’s offer, first he would, as a matter of “theater-wins over-the-audience,” put on an academy award performance, the role of “injured party,” as if denied the right to the holy grail itself. He had it all worked out and rehearsed, how he would up the stakes to get those half dozen books from the reluctant sale host. No sooner had we arrived at the sale, and Dave was already spinning all kinds of warm-up tales about his life-long passion for histories detailing events on the American frontier. It didn’t matter from what angle he approached, or how sad his game face, nothing unsettled the young lad and his determination to take his inheritance home to the city. Dave even spent a little time dismissing the books as lesser or “popular” issues and not actual “first editions,” thus being more of a burden to the family than of value. While Dave wound himself into a tight knot negotiating for the books, I found six or seven better books he’d missed the night before that were not on the host’s restricted list, along with a deer head and a dinosaur bone from a sale table outside being prepared for the next day. When we left the property that morning, Dave had a package of home-made butter tarts and I had about thirty wonderful pieces. He buried his anger in food but for the rest of that day he mumbled about those coveted books; and the plan to make a counter attack the next day. That never unfolded and here’s the second part of this Dave Brown misadventure.
We got back to Gravenhurst just in time to attend a fundraising book sale being held by the Public Library as part of a wider street sale. My wife and our wee sons Andrew and Robert, got to the sale moments before it was opened to the public and had pulled off some great Canadiana, one being and 1880’s pristine copy of “Toronto Re-Visited,” a well presented regional history of the city up to the publication date. Suzanne waved that book under Dave’s nose, and I’m sure she wanted to do the “beat you on this one dance,” but was short changed by Dave’s immediate snit, and statement to me, with arms full of books by this point, “I’m going back to the house to get my stuff; see you later!” What my wife should have done, in retrospect, was (a) don’t wave a good find in a bibliomaniac’s face unless you want to lose an arm, and (b) be a good host and give the guest the big find for the sake of harmony. Dave was famous for his snits. He had a lifetime of them. But his was an eccentric life, and I learned to accept his hard lines, as he adapted to mine. I benefited above and beyond from his mentorship. I was at the right hand of a major Canadian book collector. Let there be no mistake, Mr. Brown was of considerable acclaim in the old book trade. Some times it was his eccentricities that people knew best. I respected him for his vast knowledge about what was historically important and what was a waste of a good tree from the forest.
Dave was a bibliomaniac because he couldn’t stop acquiring books. Even on his deathbed he wanted to be let out to buy more books. Even though he was told in no uncertain terms his life was soon to be concluded, he worked as if he’d never heard an adverse word. And when he passed away and it was revealed by the estate stewards just how many sacrifices he regularly made for his books, which had by volume become his master, arguably some of his friends questioned his sanity. I never once doubted his sanity but I was very much aware of his loneliness, and it was in books he found his greatest company. Other than, of course, when he was conducting an outdoor excursion for his students during his day job with the Hamilton Board of Education.
Dave Brown chose a relationship with books over the last request of his wife for a normal, sensible co-existence between hobby and lifestyle. Whether he was disappointed by the failure of marriage or not, he never talked about those personal details of a cluttered life. One person suggested to me, after the biography was published in the year 2000, that it appeared Dave Brown had experienced a “tortured” existence with his book obsession. I think instead Dave led a busy, active, almost enchanted life, immersed in the history of the world. He was a positive, forward, innovative chap, who very much deserved his face imprinted on a toby mug. Yet he was the genuine article in all his eccentric charm. I am in the old book business because of the influences of mentors like Miles David Brown, who always made our time together interesting while at the same time teetering precariously toward impending misadventure. It wasn’t as if we were getting our jollies riding the rails to the very next hobo jungle, or seeking new and profound discovery in polar climes. We were just a couple of gnarled old book sleuths with an unyielding passion for all adventure between venues. I work solo now but nary a day or event passes that the good Mr. Brown hasn’t advised me in that heartfelt, spiritual way, something like, “hey, look in that box under the counter.” I hung off every word he said to me during life, and he’s still mouthing off from the other side. I always ask him, as a spirit that is, where he might commence a book hunt, or what end of the sale table to start. Only problem is, he always leads me to the book he wants, not what I came to buy. What a character!
When my wife and business partner admonishes me for buying too many books, I just dart and weave between the stacked and wavering piles in our house, and hope she’ll mellow by time I’m eventually found. I’m not so different from Dave Brown these days, and she has warned about the consequences of just one book crossing the threshold of the kitchen…..that by its nature doesn’t having something to do with culinary arts. While she guards the kitchen, I’ve found time to lodge another two dozen books in the family room undetected.
If at times these vignettes, stories, reminiscences weave irreverently against established thought and accepted protocol, I blame it on the curious company I’ve kept for all these years…..but how thankful I am to have been the beneficiary of non-complacent teaching, with the best intent of course.
Thanks for joining this blog-site, and being patient with the story teller.