The Winter of My Life - Looking back at a long, long but memorable journey
It was on the cusp of Christmas, probably back in 1977, when I finally decided it was going to be entirely necessary to amalgamate interests and build a Frankenstein profession out of my mishmash of career interests. I studied to be a writer and I worked tirelessly to make my mark as an antique collector/dealer. I was a fledgling historian, an adequate researcher with improving skills, and when I landed my first writing gig with a local Muskoka publication, I embarked on a ten year swing at both reporting and editing for weekly and feature magazines. For decades I’ve been unable to decide which is number one and the order of importance for the rest of my lifelong passions....that sometimes even make money. As comedian John Candy once said, in his roll as a shower-curtain ring salesman, in the movie "Planes, Trains and Automobiles," "I’m still a million dollars short of being a millionaire!" But I’ve had a hell of a life just the same.
While I enjoyed my tenure as a news writer and didn’t mind that just about any profession going was earning more than I found in my pay packet, even as an editor, I knew that it would be impossible to ever cease my passion for composition regardless of the money situation. While I didn’t care too much for the hardships of being a writer, (just making rent with enough left over for a few pints of ale) I was always able to supplement my income over the hardest periods by knowing how to buy and sell antiques and collectables, particularly old books. I have often reminisced with my young lads today that I have had four oil lamp collections in my life up to and including this point. "What do you mean dad....where are the other three?" Well, you see, the one I have now which is quite substantial, (50 or more) is the result of a festering anger that on three previous occasions I had to sell off what lamps I had collected..... in order to eat during that particularly hard and cold month way back when. Or fix the car! Or something else that demanded a quick cash solution. I could always find a buyer for good quality vintage oil lamps. I’ve had to dip into this new semi-permanent collection twice, (and I hated to do it) parting with two beautiful blue and green glass lamps three years ago to....what else....pay for a car repair.
I’ve been able to survive as a writer because I had developed a knack for being able to uncover treasures at yard sales, flea markets, estate sales, auction sales, and find a fair number of what the trade calls "sleepers" (important vintage pieces under-priced) in Ontario antique shops.....and sell them for a modest profit to prop-up a "seldom if ever profitable" writing pre-occupation. It’s kind of funny actually thinking about the two careers, and the half dozen offshoot professions including museum curator (in two locations in Muskoka), that I’ve been involved in since 1977, the year I returned home to Bracebridge after graduating from York University with a degree in Canadian history. So here I was an aspiring historian, with a penchant for writing, who was taking twenty-five cents off every dollar earned as a reporter, and re-investing the money in antiques.....first using the old books I bought as research aids, and as a base for historical feature articles I was getting paid for.....then when finished, selling them off for a small but significant profit. Even my boys have borrowed this in their vintage guitar business here in Gravenhurst, making money off the instruments through rentals over a couple of years, and then selling them off to finance new and better guitars. I wouldn’t have lasted five years as a reporter if I hadn’t been able to use my knowledge of antiques to bolster the depleted coffers.
In retrospect, I needed all these jobs and out-riggers just to make a tiny but comfortable wage. But by golly what a fun life I’ve enjoyed having all these interests to fall back on in times of need....and when I got bored with being a writer for too many months in a row...or attending many, many auction sales and toting those awkward and heavy purchases down rutted farm lanes to a car parked too far away.....there was always a gainful alternative to resort to for a few weeks or months. Today it’s becoming increasingly necessary to have career alternatives from the get-go that are practical and adaptable at a moment’s notice. The days of one career from beginning to end are over and those who can quickly adapt to new opportunities in diverse career fields, will be living comfortably in the future. Unless you’re a writer. But then you’ll feel that the hardships endured are just the patina of the soul, enriched by the ups and downs of the creative process,..... the learning curve of experiences survived....."doing without" being at the forefront. I guess in some ways I was ahead of my time but I never thought of myself as a trend setter. I did have this cartoonish image of myself in those early days, clinging onto the edge of the modern world with red finger-tips and white knuckles, afraid to climb up and over because of what was on the other side, and just as scared to look down at what I might fall upon if my grip failed. Yet I knew that there was a future for us "clingers to existence," and while I never fell all the way to the bottom (close though), it did become relevant in time to move about and experiment with this clinging-thing.
Limbo wasn’t for me for the long-term, so I made diverse plans and by and large they succeeded. I did eventually overcome my fear of what dangers lurked below and beyond......and did become more adventurous and desirous for discovery as my confidence began to build. I know a lot of folks stuck in this position......especially when a job they thought was theirs for life was suddenly and unexpectedly gone. I always anticipated problems. It was my strength. I could pretty much tell the time and day I was going to tell the publisher to stuff the job. So I learned early to have a strong plan "B" and even "C".
The antique business is not for the faint hearted in either the physical or emotional sense. You’ve got to be a gambler, a high roller, the possessor of great wisdom and knowledge about a trillion vintage items you might well run into in one good weekend out on the hustings. If you’re short on knowledge (and courage to take a chance) about good art, well, you might pass up a major Canadian painting just because you declined to spend fifty bucks for an oil on masonite landscape.....could you pass on a Group of Seven because you’re cheap? Sure! I get some of my best finds courtesy people who hit the sale first and refused to pay fifty bucks for a several thousand dollar painting. (The stories of missed opportunities are weighty) I have on occasion purchased a fifty dollar art piece only to find out it was a copy of a good painting (worth pennies for the board only)......and thus the adventure of trying to improve your odds of success based on knowledge and experience. My odds are certainly better and my finds more substantial. But truth is, it’s much easier to sit at this keyboard and make these notations, than to stand at an auction for seven hours, or travel three hundred miles on a weekend, to maybe purchase three or four antique pieces. It’s the reason I’m glad I have this convergence of interests and the will to stop antiquing for awhile in order to work on a writing project for a month or so. When I do get back in the saddle to commence my collecting rounds, I’m refreshed and restored to a collector’s mission.....seek, forage, and discover.....possibly the holy grail if its somewhere on my rounds.
I’m going to spend the winter months here at Birch Hollow pursuing a number of editorial projects I’ve been putting off for the past year. I’m working on a special long-term series about collecting and the semi-amazing adventures hunting for old paintings, books, documents, furniture and anything else of a significant vintage attraction......"What for?" you ask. Well it will be offered to my friends at "Curious, The Tourist Guide," for the 2009 and 2010 issues....and will not only explore some of my own exceptional finds but offer some advice for hobbyists and fledgling collectors, on how to do better on a budget. Seeing as the economy isn’t all that robust anymore, and investing in the stock market and real estate is kind of precarious these days, I have a hunch my antique collecting friends will know exactly where to place their mad money......still after all these years buying low with the intent of one day selling high. Finding my oil lamps for good prices allowed me to net a substantial profit at a time I needed it most. From experience I do know what I’m writing about. I’m not all that proud that I had to sell so many fine pieces off but it was the price to pay for being a writer at the same time as an antique collector. Thank goodness I had one to support the other. It’s worked pretty well over the past three decades.....and I’ve enjoyed all the variations and diversions along the way.
It will not be a column for the rich and famous but they’re invited to read along as well. It will be a collection of feature articles for those who simply love travel, are willing to answer the call of the open road when the mood presents......appreciate the value and quality of old stuff, history, culture, simpler times, and the opportunity to meet some fine folks doing the same thing as you. I was a pauper who found enough coppers to get into the antique trade at the lowest level possible.....I started by digging for old bottles, and my first major purchases were old sealer jars which I adored. I moved up to oil lamps because of a love for old glass. I had to settle back then for lamps that need restoration. I’ve always had a good work ethic that way, and I can tell you there is nothing as satisfying as restoring a lamp and then enjoying its warm golden glow on an old sideboard or pine harvest table on a mid winter’s eve. This will be a collection for the poor sod who doesn’t have deep pockets but has instead a lot of raw enthusiasm for the hunt. The hunt has always been the attraction anyway.....and even with a van full of finds, I’m always a little sad when an adventure ends up in the driveway of home. There’s a pleasing aura of it all,...... it has been a good day with a partner (my wife Suzanne), and the experiences making new contacts, meeting up with old friends and dealers, and stopping awhile in this great province just to enjoy the view. I can’t tell you how many roadside picnics we’ve enjoyed in some of the most pastoral, enchanting, scenic places in this amazing hinterland. So yes, there’s much more to antiquing than the hunt and companion purchases. Getting there and back is pretty incredible.....remarkable in fact!
The first issue of this new antique and collecting series will run in Curious, The Tourist Guide beginning in February 2009.
Have a great holiday season. With kindest regards. The Currie family of Birch Hollow.

Merry Christmas, have a wonderful New Year and best wishes from Birch Hollow
Christmas has always been an enchanted time of the year for this writer, and the winter has always been an inspiring season in which to compose. In my earlier newspaper days, I would set about to research and write the coming summer season copy for The Muskoka Sun, by early December, and for the first week of January I was into full production mode. Each year I produced between two and four major feature series which could run part of a summer season or extend from the 24th of May until Thanksgiving which meant about 24 weighty chapters. I worked at home the first years, in the late 1980's, because I had assumed by economic necessity, the role of "Mr. Mom," looking after our first son Andrew and then Robert at the onset of the 1990's. I welcomed being a writer-in-residence after a high stress ten year haul hustling copy from an over-crowded newsroom. My wife was able to return to her teaching job shortly after the birth of both lads and my home office was officially open between diaper changes and feeding....playtime at the park and bedlam at home. I learned quickly how to work amidst the chaos and as far as output I never received one complaint about quality or quantity from the publisher when it was time to haul the manuscripts up to The Herald-Gazette office on Bracebridge’s Dominion Street. While I made the publisher smile it made the typesetter nuts in this pre home-cumputer situation. I wore out a lot of typesetters in my day.
I had a nice neighborhood view in those years from our small brick home on lower Ontario Street just below the High School, where my wife taught in those days. It didn’t matter what time of year it was....the humble little abode was settled amidst trees and history and it was only a short jaunt down a small path from our backyard, ........ to the secondary school playing field, which offered a massive area for Andrew to run with our dog Alf. Second son Robert came several years later after we had moved to a similarly charming little homestead on Golden Beach Road near Bowyer’s Beach, on Lake Muskoka. This was also a fabulous retreat for any writer, being surrounded by a splendidly encroaching Muskoka woodland.
So here I am 22 years later, still pounding out the editorial copy, for a few still-loyal readers after all these decades, and yes, still acting as house-father and honorary "Roadie" for my lads’ music business here in Gravenhurst. Tonight for example, is the annual Christmas Variety Show for their guitar and drum students....and many talented musician friends at the Gravenhurst Opera House, a fundraiser for the local Salvation Army Food Bank. While some things have obviously changed over the years.....well, fundamentally things have remained family-themed.....whatever they get up to....we join in support....and they do the same when we find ourselves with an unruly project. While we have our critics out there....the "Who do you think they are" kind of naysayers....it hasn’t daunted us from our Walton-like commitment to help each other navigate the tricky turns and long hauls of life. Of this connection I am grateful and proud.
I have set aside much more time this year to pursue many other writing opportunities now that several other community projects have been successfully although reluctantly concluded. This year I plan on spending more time in composition and an equal share of time to be spent out on the antique hustings which has always been this writer’s best outlet.....to release the frustration built up trying to wordsmith my way out of a trillion log jams at this computer keyboard. You know it seems like ancient history when the keyboard I was tapping at, was an old beat up Underwood that weighed more than the Queen Mary’s anchor. I might finish a column at this keyboard and feel tired from sitting so long. In those days I finished a writing jag with black fingers......because I always had to adjust the ribbon, and physically exhausted from both repairs, adjustments and the energy needed to heavily impact those metal keys through the inkless ribbon and onto the white paper in the roll.....and then there were the "white-out" missions. Ah, those were the days.
I’m looking forward to this winter season holed-up in beautiful Muskoka which by early storms would suggest a long and evil period of snow, ice and bitter cold. For output, a long and cold winter will keep me at this keyboard on most days. A nice mild winter might have me spending many more hours wandering through the woodlands like the lost bard, here in the snow-laden haunts of dear old Birch Hollow.
Our family would like to extend Season’s Greetings to one and all, and trust you will enjoy a Happy and fulfilling New Year. Amidst all the turmoil surrounding us, the bad news on the economy and the many conflicts throughout the world.....it is the time of contemplation and restoration of faith, and a rekindling of goodwill and commitment to the cause of Peace on Earth. Have a safe and very Merry Christmas.

Recession at least provides a hiatus for Muskoka's hinterland
There are thousands of arguments bandied about today, expounding all the live long day why Muskoka needs greater and more diversified economic development. I agree. As a long serving editor and columnist with the Muskoka media, I have always supported the commission to attract more business and industrial investment to the district. So before I'm whacked with the critique that I'm anti-development and unCanadian, it just isn't so. Sensible proportion and the right location are two of my most debated issues for Muskoka's hinterland survival. I won't support development that diminishes our natural assets which fuel our historic and number one industry....tourism. And it's true I'm a big quality-of-life nut, and I live in the rural area of the province because of the embrace of hinterland a short distance in any direction from my front door. I do want my sons and their eventual families to live, work and prosper in our region, so it is without question that I am reverent and adaptable to the necessary change to make opportunities more abundant. While it might read as a contradiction of wants and values, it really has more to do with being careful about what is being attracted to Muskoka, and that progress continue to be in the best long term interests of the environment. I have to remind untutored revisionists today that no matter what numbers you crunch and philosophies sculpted to promote an agenda, truth is undeniable.....our tourist and second home-owner economy is number one in 2008-9 as it was more than a hundred years ago. If we become less desirable as a vacation escape from the urban jungle, we will lose thunderously more earnings than we're experiencing now sparring with the present Bear market.
Although there were a lot fewer folks back in the 1870's, to offer arguments, it was pretty obvious to the pioneer businessman that commerce would improve as opportunities increased. As the historians could explain in great and even burdensome volumes, there have been arguments for economic expansion since the first homestead shanty here in Muskoka.....as elsewhere, when capitalism starts its initial exploratory unfurling.....onward toward the "demand-monster" with the insatiable appetite for more and more and more.
I get a kick out of the poiliticians here who speak in such broad terms about economic development, as if they're the only ones who have ever hoisted and marched forward with that goodwill banner. Every decade in Muskoka's history has produced the glad-handers trying to hustle business opportunity. Some decades and personal efforts have fared better than others. There's simply no end result to the pursuit of economic development. Every modern day controversial development that has had to contend with opposition, draws on the "economic development" heartstring because proponents know it's a motherhood-family issue to keep sons and daughters employed at home. It's hard to argue against a project or development, when some families you know are struggling with unemployment. But there will always be unemployed citizens even in boom times. In the past 20 years particularly "economic development" has been both a boon and a boondogle. Folks selling the virtues of a crappy project on the basis it will create economic opportunity. Then the construction company brings in workers from everywhere else in the province, versus hiring locally because we don't have the skilled labour force they require. It is why they hire key staff as well from outside the area to manage the projects. While there is still hale and hardy economic spin-off having anybody reside, even temporarily in our district, the sales pitches are wild in their estimation of just how well we Muskokans will do, if we buy into selling off the hinterland to the new vested interest.
In Muskoka we have been ripe for the picking and a lot of developers know this all too well. We have bought into a lot of magic potion cure-alls recently about this need to accomodate growth.....and that without new and improved commercial investment, we will whither and become irrelevant. Listening to the developers and their shills is like standing in front of the steam belching, light flashing, roaring old contraption that made the Wizard of Oz seem so frightening and sage with his warnings. Take away the bluster and you've got just another plan to make money....some more grandiose than others but always with the advisory that our community's well being rests on a positive outcome when council finally casts their vote. Most of the time this is done without nary a soul wondering silently or aloud, whether it is actually true or a manufactured hollogram of an imaginary situation; what if we said no, and decided to be twice as prudent about compromising our natural assets....would the world really come crashing down? Is there any truth that we can only survive as a community and a region, if we prostitute ourselves for every last development dime. To hell with the environment. We like the really big show! The forests? Hell, you can plant a new one. Wetlands? Let's make crappy land into better land by draining and infilling.
The problem in the District of Muskoka for people of my ilk, who prefer development on a sensible, manageable, sustainable level, is that local politicians are simply too eager to accept development in the name of progress without truly appreciating the consequences to be faced in the future. While the City of Toronto is facing an amazing array of crime situations, pollution, traffic congestion, infra-structure dilemmas, and congestion issues constantly, we know this to be the acceptable carnage that comes with a region's economic engine.....yet they want more and more and more without fixing what needs to be fixed.....what needs to be improved about humanity's rights and privileges here in this vast Dominion. It's the glorification of city life which makes its way to the hinterland and what used to be a city dweller's retreat, is becoming an arm of the urban scene itself. We are becoming a suburb here in Muskoka and our proximity to Barrie and Toronto is now pounding the crap out of our open spaces. What could we have done about it? First of all, the glad handers in local politics over the past ten years, simply couldn't believe all the good fortune in economic development. The box store influx. What could be wrong with this? Give us more and we will be great! Or something as ill thought out!
Acceptance has meant an opening gate for everything else that looks good on paper, and steadily rings the municipal coffers. But the double edge sword is that old saying....you've got to spend money to make money. As the District deficit attests, there's a big price attached to progress. What could we really afford? What have we over-spent? Do we still have the magic means? No! Just the defecit for a long time to come. But has it been responsible for the citizens of Muskoka who have a great appreciation for their forested/lakeland situation. There's a lot of opposition, a large number of naysayers....but unfortunately the will to fight every project the municipality tells us is good for what ails us.....well, we would be fighting constantly. And when you do this, believe me, the "yes" side of everything progressive and greed-laden, can do a lot to trip you up.....the community boycott. I've been at the heart of many protests against development, and I'm quite familiar with the blackballing protocol. As an old reporter for the Muskoka media, I've never given up on investigative practice and I know full well those who are pulling the strings locally and how they get even with trouble-makers who force projects to the Ontario Municipal Board. Let's just say opportunities kind of dry up as the word gets around that "oh, oh, it's that Currie again......you know what to do now......show him why it's not nice to object." Many citizens who have done so....and got involved with protests against specific large-scale projects have faced various forms of intimidation and disrespect, and many knowing this potential outcome, and needing jobs and their businesses to succeed, simply retreat knowing this to be the politics of a small town.
I have heard so much bullcrap over the past five years about the need for more urban and regional economic expansion. When you confront, for example, someone with a vested interest in real estate locally, by suggesting hundreds of new houses have been built on spec....by speculators, and speculating developers,....the mood turns real chilly fast. If you ask local politicians if there has been any significant speculation here by developers in the past half decade, and the defence commences. "What speculation? Where? Not here? Not in Muskoka. Every house built here is to fulfill a housing need, they argue. Okay, call it what you want but the truth is Muskoka is being consumed by speculation......not by the opening up of business as such but the fact that sprawling subdivisions are plain and simply unnecessary to support the local population now and for quite a few years into the future. But the operative phrase here is "Build it and they will come. From Toronto, Belleville, Oakville etc. etc. So they have, and then some. Now take away those folks who bought a second and third house as an investment in their own community. Take away the folks who have bought these homes for summer only, retiring south from three to six months each year. Consider how many are used as rental income properties until the market strikes upward and they can sell for a huge profit. Hey this is just capitalism in a hale and hardy democracy fulfilling the plan. Accept this darn old near recession situation where houses are selling less per month for lower prices, with an inventory of many months of dust-gathering listings. So did we build too many houses? You certainly won't here that from a local politician unless a reporter asked for a comment off-the-record.
The problem is that local elected officials operate in the "now" largely and as far as being visionary, well, that's not their strong point. There isn't a thirty something person in this region who should be surprised by the economic downturn. There shouldn't be an elected representative in these parts who couldn't have recognized the signs.....so just how high can real estate prices go......before something was going to pop. With an high number of economically challenged citizens from the get-go, and food banks needing all the support they can get to tend the hungry, here we were so proud of the escalation of property values.....and many got so pumped they bet the farm and the homestead that what goes up never comes down. Stunned! Our leaders should have known better and looked at the projects on the books, and in the field, and thought about the catastrophe that could unfold......if developers offer big incentives on new houses while poor bastards who have lost their jobs and futures here, have to sell their homes just to survive. New home clear out versus necessary liquidation in order for a family's economic survival. I know, it's free enterprise right? Survival of the fittest and the most wiley. Just consider for a moment that you have to sell your lived-in house to fend off the bank's interest in repossession. Do you stand even the smallest chance of selling when a new home, for a few thousand more, is being offered with warranty and other incentives.
These huge residential expansions, from condos to single family units, are seen as outstanding improvements to our way of life and enhancements toward the future. This may be so. We know expansion is necessary as the population does increase. Yet there is a burden of responsibility, as a driver knowing when to signal, when to break, when to put on lights, and when to slow down on icy roadways. It's no different for municipal governance operating this region of ours. They needed to be cautionary when they began their open door policy of development. They needed to know just what a consequence was, and how to minimize impact. These same folks who put the pedal to the metal are now facing a serious reckoning with all of us constituents, who are starting to see the flaws of accepting too much too soon, without adequate reservation about what can and will topple under the right stresses. And you can make comment about hindsight being 20/20 but in fact, it doesn't apply here, because these folks knew all too well what was lurking around the corner. Economic cycle. They should have had a clear understanding about the recession of the late 1980's and early 90's. It's not distant history it's relevant historical fact that should have been applied here, to ensure that if a recession was to hit, a bear market at the very least, and it was overdue.....how to you ensure a safe balance of interests.....a sensible debt load....and a workable number of options to fall back on in case things started to fall apart. With the massive debt load of this region, you bet we're in trouble at this time of the economic downturn.....and there isn't a municipal councillor in Muskoka who shouldn't be deeply concerned about the future well being of their region.....and being able to meet its demands over the next gruelling decade.
Short sightedness. Greed. Stupidity. There are many descriptions to borrow, to deal with the glad-handers of our region who have perpetuated a dangerous situation, of economic tight-roping.....an urban expansion that would put at risk, at a most vulnerable time, mainstreets still trying to cope with decentralizing business strategies begun in the 1970's. In Bracebridge it is anybody's guess how the pods of commerce will fare in an economic down-turn but there are a few experts out there.....namely the business people on the front line who have already begun preparing for the new reality....hoping to survive the new economic deficiencies in an already stressed business environment.
If local government leaders had employed the smallest amount of wisdom, which comes from life experiences, they would have been pumelling the respective mayors about budget restraint, seeking a development hiatus, to allow for the storm to hit and pass. It's just logical. If a storm is coming, take precaution. We tell our kids to use caution. Be careful crossing the street. Don't take rides with strangers! Don't do anything stupid. Yet, when it comes to caution and the public good, all of a sudden it becomes a non issue. "Naw, it'll be okay....you'll see."
The problem here is that there are too many advisors locally with vested interests. People who should not be so close to councillors and mayors who are free-wheeling with their economic visions. We don't need the local arm twisters and ceaselessly progressives, the lobbyists who are in it for the virtues of expansion, under the guise of "it's be so great for the community." What if they're wrong? We'll see! Soon.
I'm deeply concerned about the small business community here, and the hard working citizenry who will suffer the consequences of less responsible government......elected officials who have voted in favor of urban expansion on the grounds it is always good and positive to have economic expansion. Well, that's not true. With each expansionary wave there are consequences of accepting the urban culture.....thrust for capitalist folly on the good folks who have made this beautiful part of Muskoka home for decades. It has been at their expense. It's hard not to get upset, as a regional historian, to see how and know why we have been mauled by progress.....such that investors from Southern Ontario can turn their accustomed profit, and then try to figure out how the locals can be influenced yet again, to buy into the snake oil fix-all.
Muskoka's number one industry is tourism. It has been this way from the late 1800's. What are we doing to make tourism better and more prosperous in the future? Apparently, we have opted to build more residential neighborhoods and commercial nodes. Does this help tourism? Not really but try extracting a wee bit of logic from town hall.
For the next two years of their municipal terms, the present herd of elected officials will see the results of their handiwork......and wish they had employed a somewhat more conservative, sensible approach to accepting so much, so quickly, without fearing the "kid locked in the candy shop" syndrome of over-feeding on a good thing. We warned them. Many citizens saw the potential dangers of over-development and commercial node planning but we were the bastard "critics" of the good life. I guess this is what it comes down to after all the expended debate....what makes a good life in a good community.......abundant commerce, hundreds of thousands of neighbors, no wild animals to worry about; no bears, deer, ever-pooping birds and other annoying wildlife. Just tarmac and more tarmac and traffic lights at every intersection, and oh so many shopping opportunities.
I will validate this with one question, and hopefully an answer from a critic........."When will economic development be enough to satisfy everyone?" "When will a councillor(s) stand up and say.....'by Gum Mr. Mayor, we have finally achieved an economic balance that can't be bettered!" There is no possibility of this being achieved because it is a timeless excuse to seek more.....and who doesn't want more?"
In the meantime, don't let these elected officials who have accepted development over and above sensible proportion, off the hook. And when they fall back on that nasty old Bear market as the culprit.....let them know that bear or bull, there's always a consequence for making precarious investments. And speak up when they brush off the calamity of failed businesses by referring to the survival of the fittest.....because even the most fit amongst us, is weakened by reckless expansion of commercial pods.....and it is almost always the case the mainstreet takes one for the Gipper.
I love Muskoka. I love the hinterland way of life. What has happened here in the past decade has been anything but positive to the development of Muskoka's recreation industry.......already in the grasp of a serious, unabated decline.
-30-

Newspaper days were good, blogging is better
I have been writing an editor's retrospective feature column for the past few months, for a swell publication in Ontario, known as "Curious: The Tourist Guide." By the way, of the 20 or so publications I've written for since 1979, I have enjoyed my lengthy tenure with these fine folks.....who are truly generous with editorial space and always open to new feature ideas. The column has been about my days working in the editorial department of a weekly newspaper formerly known as The Herald-Gazette, in Bracebridge, Ontario. I began as a cub reporter at a sister publication known as the Georgian-Bay/Muskoka Lakes Beacon, then published from the community of MacTier, south of Parry Sound. In the early 1980's I moved over to the news editor's position of The Herald-Gazette, and then on to full editorship, which included management positions with The Muskoka Advance, and The Muskoka Sun, a popular summer time publication.
From 1979 to 1989 belonging to Muskoka Publications, here in the hinterland, was an aspiring writer's dream come true. After graduating from York University my girlfriend, at the time, wanted me to accept a job in the downtown Toronto area. I lasted in an office job exactly one half of one day. I couldn't do it! I came home to Muskoka, opened up my first antique shop in Bracebridge, known as Old Mill, and as most collectable dealers need (other than a rich partner), I looked for a supporting job to cover my extravagances. So I landed a job as a cub reporter for a small publication serving the Georgian Bay - Muskoka Lakes region. My parents took turns running the shop while I was at work. It was a business that would be closed after a short run simply because I got more gigs writing than I had expected and simply couldn't devote the time to hunting, gathering and refinishing the antiques I needed to stock the shop. It would be in the late 1980's that I opened another shop known as Birch Hollow Antiques, still chugging away today, with my wife Suzanne at the helm.
I worked at these sister publications until management decided my irreverance and failure to worship them with full heart and soul, meant I was no longer committed to their editorial plan. Well as you may detect sarcasm, it was true that I was irreverent to a fault and I offer no apology. I just didn't agree with their management decisions and I simply couldn't deal with the way I was being minimized as a writer. I was a journeyman writer who could compose a story quickly, efficiently, accurately and responsibly.....and that guaranteed the publisher wasn't going to face a lawsuit because of my reporting shortfalls. As for editiorial excellence, well, very few of us can be excellent about our tasks all the time but whenever I was putting material together for public consumption, I didn't cut corners or offer-up crappy copy juist to meet deadline. A few of the publishers I worked for had changes they wanted to implement and they knew, rightly so, that I wasn't going to be shaped by anyone or any wild and whacky editorial scheme they thought would be the next money maker. They knew in advance I'd probably try to dump their initiative on a rookie staffer who was still by industry standards a "keener," and didn't know when to duck the pitch! I wasn't adverse to negotation but I didn't dance on command....and if I sensed at any time an editorial project was being headed up by the advertising department....well by golly, I did everything to miss the opportunity entirely. I could be invisible fast when I saw the briefcase-toting ad sales manager coming up the stairs toward my office. I hated ad-supporting feature stories but I loved the news beat.
My tenure at the helm of The Herald-Gazette was a cherished time.....I loved to go to work each morning, and the fact I had some fine colleagues who mentored me constantly with sage advice, it was better than having spent tens of thousands of dollars in a university journalism course......this was immersion at its most precarious. Every word we put out there to the public could have meant a lawsuit, a firing, a reprimand.....and statements from the publisher like, "you'll never work in this business again." Being responsible and honest about the job was mandatory if you wanted to stick around. One miscue was all it took to be dumped. I had an amazing ten years in the day to day operation of a community newspaper and for the most part it was a hoot. Even the difficult moments with management non-confidence, and incredibly draining press nights into the wee hours, political run-arounds and smoke and mirror games with news sources, we never hoisted those frosty mugs of draft at the local watering-hole, (after the paper was put to bed), that we didn't feel it was all worth the battlefield of landmine-navigation.
When I was unceremoniously forced from the paper with a drastic reduction of hours, which I assume they knew would force me to seek employment elsewhere, I lobbed myself unceremoniously over to the competing publication, which ended badly a half year later. I needed a break from being an employee. Did I mention I got kicked out of Cubs as a kid for insubordination. How many can say that? For a number of years I reverted to my old standby, as an antique dealer, and we ran a successful small shop on upper Manitoba Street, in Bracebridge, with my business partner-bride Suzanne. This new antique business was called Birch Hollow which we still operate online today. This is when I began writing a freelance piece (I didn't ask for any remuneration) in the Muskoka Advance, a weekly Sunday paper, called "Sketches of Historic Muskoka." Following this was a huge and prolific period of demand when I was researching and writing dozens of features for The Muskoka Sun each winter, from first snowfall to first lilac bloom. I wasn't doing it for the money. I just enjoyed writing and selling antiques. Not very complicated. I needed my antique business for profit but writing was for the good of an ever-questing artistic soul. Eventually however, management decided to impose a few controls on this seasoned, gnarled, curmudgeon of a writer, and once again I said, well, (amongst other things about what they should bite)..... stuff it! I had no shortage of publications that wanted my contributions but I determined in this universe-reaching new century that it was time to make my antique obsession turn over an occasional profit. It's a problem of all dealers.....we like to spend and that doesn't always balance with what we earn....but we're surrounded by a lot of neat old stuff with potential.
I remember telling a boss once, in a heated debate, that I didn't take the editor's job because of any prestige, or for that matter because it offered a great wage. It sucked. I was in it because of writing, and even as editor, to fill the big hulking white spaces between the ads, I often composed seven to ten articles and more each week. It was a co-operative newsroom task that by necessity demanded lots of editorial submissions. The ads were husky and plentiful back then and demanded a substantial amount of copy each edition. I've had a lot of publishers and managerial overseers snear at this comment, when I'd tell them quite bluntly....."you think I put up with you guys just for the meagre beer money stipend? I write because I love to.....that's it.....and I'll take the few thin dimes you pay me and buy a new typewriter ribbon....why...because I love writing so much." I wasn't fooling. They just didn't get it. I was the most productive writer they had but they couldn't deal with any one saying they loved their job. And over the years they did everything they could to make me hate it. It just didn't work. Sure I've been wounded a tad but not enough to detract from an enterprise that gives me a great deal of satisfaction.
I was thrilled to be able to spend a day writing. Just writing. No distractions, no banging-door meetings, no intrusions.....just writing. It has taken many decades to find comfort amidst solitude. There was a time when I needed a constant din to feel as if I was in the ball-game. Back then there were always intrusions, always distractions, and there weren't many days when management calmed to satisfaction with anything. We were required to attend lively meetings to trim up the troops. I loved it when they tried to motivate us! We were self-motivating..... period! I almost clobbered a new managing editor at one meeting when he told the writing staff he was going to "nurture us like flowers in a pot." From that point I hated the guy and he knew it. I told him in no uncertain terms that if he ever said that to me again, I would embarass him beyond recovery. Funny thing was, this was the goof who had to break it to me....with a smile only a belt sander could have removed, that I was being cut down in hours to status of a part-timer, after a decade's service to the publication. As a former baseball player in regional fastball, I knew some pretty incredible hand signals, and I gave him all of them in a magical sequence mixed with some of my own invention.....and a few other rude ones. I refused the part-time offering needless to say. Best thing I ever did! I actually started to make money in my freelance approach, and I was able to concentrate our antique business beyond the storefront and into e-commerce, which we still pursue now with steady results. The only jerk I answer to these days is the one writing this blog. My wife is the accountant. As long as I turn a profit she has no reason to order a staff meeting.
When we closed our antique shop in Bracebridge in the mid 1990's, moving it to our Gravenhurst home, and I began a different approach to writing, having a much higher standard of who I'd work with and for, my home office with computer became a nurturing, resource laden, inspiration oozing paradise. I could write for hours on end and never have one urgent request for my attendance at a disciplinary meeting. I was able to run my antique business on-line and world wide, and my writing enterprise, geez, I was free at last. I could write at any time of the day or night and not have calls and frequent, annoying raps on my door intrude upon the story-line. Sure there was the household din sometimes, because I was a Mister Mum to my two lads Andrew and Robert (looked after them while my wife went back to her teaching job), yet surprisingly, I seemed to write more and better with the voices of the lads playing in the other rooms. They play guitars now and have a music store here in Gravenhurst......their replacement noise being the play of three cats and a dog, snoring, growling, shreiking with the timely, regular interuptions..... maybe an occasional nuzzle, when they've determined its feeding time at the zoo. I miss the boys but these critters are good company. It's sort of a passive news room.....they don't bark commands and get in my face, or bloody hell, ask me to stop my work mid paragraph to take a used car photo for the advertising department. I hated that with a passion.
I don't think I could ever go back to that time in my life, where I had to listen to my alleged superiors, tell me how and what to write. Since I began writing in the mid 1970's as a struggling poet/author at York University, I have never had a period when I couldn't find a willing publication or media outlet interested in a freelance piece. And to this point in my life, it's pretty much the same although everyone around here notes I'm spending a lot more time in the antique field than with writing at present. Every few years it switches around, and I get more writing gigs than antiquing opportunities. With this amazing outlet to "blog-at-will" it has opened up a lot of doors, not just for me but for many other proficient and talented writers wishing to express themselves without the whining and nattering of publishers....worried about losing ads and readers because of a controversial stand.....the side taken on a political debate.....the impact it might have in social situations. I got pretty sick of the "good time was had by all" approach to journalism, and it pretty much created the conditions for my diminished position at the paper. I haven't been fired yet from this blog site. I'm pretty buzzed about that!
You know it goes back to childhood, this problem with bullies as bosses. Shortly after we arrived in town, moving north from Burlington, Ontario, I was just delighted to receive a warm and welcoming invitation to join the rank and file of the Bracebridge Cubs, and I was working on my first badges of accomplishment. I didn't have my uniform yet but for this one evening get-together, my mother insisted on buying me a brand new dress shirt and church pants as we used to call them....just to look mildly dapper and respective of club standards. We weren't rich folks and I didn't get a lot of new clothes so I was pretty proud of my attire. Mid way through the evening it was recreation time, and we were told the group would be playing British Bulldog....which was pretty dumb considering the number of kids and the small size of the Scout Hall. We'd run back and forth and attempt to avoid being tagged. Some of the touches were a tad heavy I noticed, to the point a few kids were falling into the wall. I was pretty good at the game and lasted until there were only several players left. I made my last foray across and a kid grabbed me by the collar and ripped the whole back out of the shirt. There was even a lengthy red, multi finger claw mark down about six or seven inches on my shoulder. Some of the other lads had similar wounds that needed tending, and outfits showing the rigors of rough play.
I went to the leader and said, "Hey, look what that guy did to my shirt?" "So?," was the limit of his sympathy. "Well, he's going to buy me another shirt," I retorted with a half Irish-Dutch demeanour, dragon-like by any other description. "Buzz off kid," said the leader. What happened next would have impressed that white attired, gun slinging cowboy, "Shane"....although I never hit anyone or pulled a gun.....well sir, I told him about his "skunky" attitude (it was the 1960's), and suggested that he was a pretty poor excuse for a leader......and that yes, he would be dipping into his retirement funds to buy me a new shirt. This isn't intended to discount the good work of the Cub Scout movement, just to suggest that at this time, the leader was a jerk.
My father later let the chap know he should have had more sense that to promote rugby rules in a game of indoor British Bulldog....but I don't think I ever got money for a new shirt. My mother just fixed it the best she could and life went on pretty much as it had before the incident. The Cub leader tried to be my good buddy for the next thirty odd years, especially when he'd try to sell me on writing a promo for his failing business...... but I never forgot that shabby treatment he bestowed on a trusting kid who wanted to be part of a good program.
Guess it sums up my attitude today. There are still certain names from the former publishing business that are not to be spoken in our homestead..... and that's my right. But I don't let it become an entanglement.....in fact, if I do inadvertently think about some of these folks at all, it's because I always write better when I'm madly gnashing my teeth.....I'm a beggar for punishment but it works, it works! You wouldn't believe the huge volume of manuscripts penned in anger. Surprisingly, they don't read as angry and vengeful as I felt at time of penning! I'm suring seeing my byline pop up after all these years drives them nuts. That's all the incentive I need.
We all have our markers from the past that make us cringe, send fear and trembling through our hearts, and yet make us appreciate how far we've come, to become so pleasantly, successfully independent.
When my son Robert, who helps me polish and then publish this blog, asked me bluntly how I feel about blogging versus writing for a publication.....I said "Well, that's easy......liberated." It does take a while to get used to, so for comfort's sake I often write while imagining a former boss hovering over my shoulder, trying to read my copy......to make helpful, "I know better than you," additions and deletions...."to make the story more suitable to our readers." It's kind of like hitting your hand with a hammer because it feels damn good when you stop. And yes, despite what you've just read, I do enjoy my craft and can produce volumes without ever once thinking about the clod who wanted to nurture me like a wee flower.
Thanks for joining me on this most recent blog submission.

The lilacs are blooming -
What a wonderful world
Early in the morning, on the 24th of May, I stopped on the way out of our house to smell the heavy blooms of lilacs hanging over the gravel lane. I looked forward all winter to the day when the melt water would soak down and nurture the roots of these many bushes that we rescued from a family cottage at Windermere, on Lake Rosseau. When we moved to our Gravenhurst home, after a lengthy stay in Windermere, I insisted we bring along as many lilacs as possible, to plant in what was a rather barren front yard. Each spring it is a real treat to see these beautiful trees bring forth such magnificent blooms. I never pass that I don't inhale as much as my lungs and senses can consume.
It was on this day that we received word, from a retirement home in Bracebridge, that my mother was unlikely to survive the morning, and we should come as quickly as possible. I knew they were wrong. When I stopped to admire the lilacs down by the car, I had the clear sense that she had already passed, and that she too had stopped in the abandon of this mortal coil, to take one last smell of heaven on earth. I had a very real feeling she was, for just a moment, standing by my side peacefully enjoying what had been a wonderful life. Merle Currie was in her 86th year. She enjoyed living here in Muskoka, although at first country living seemed to frighten her, particularly the early start and late melt of the winter season. She adored walking and spent hours strolling along the shore of the Muskoka River, and up and down Manitoba Street, so strikingly beautiful at this time of year when the maple leaves unfurl into the early summer sunshine.
I stood there admiring the massive blooms and the sweet aroma, and I know Merle would have agreed at this point, that it was a far better thing to dawdle and celebrate life. Hers was now the recognition and fulfillment of a well spent life, and just as these charming blooms will retire, the tiny individual petals falling to the ground from which it grew, we will always recognize fondly the short but vibrant season of lilacs. When we arrived at the retirement home, Merle had indeed taken her last breath, and when I asked my father when it had happened, it corresponded almost precisely the moment I stood in the shadow of the thriving lilac, feeling the presence of my mother's last earthly moment. Merle always was perceptive and amazingly intuitive. We subtly agreed that it had all been a good mother-son relationship for these 53 odd years, and that it was okay after all the mileage, to just calm everso gently by these flowering shrubs that remind us all of other days and homestead ways.
I knew that my mother was contented following her passing, and that her request was that we cease to grieve and go about our earthly days in good cheer. Death had released her from considerable mortal pain. She was free now. And it was a settling feeling that she had found immediate peace, enjoying these spring lilacs as she always had in life. When I attended to pay my final respects, and saw her tucked into her hospital bed, I thanked God she had been freed universal, to enjoy enternity with the wild abandon of a free spirit.
My mother had been a great source of inspiration to me as a fledgling writer. She had great faith in her son and sometimes I honestly feared she had too much confidence, expecting me to do handstands when I couldn't do a simple push-up. "Of course you can do it Teddy," as she used to call me, much to my chagin....because she often said it front of my burly hockey or football mates. Merle knew I couldn't abide any one who bestowed a half effort on an important project, and she knew how to motivate me when I seemed least inclined. My love of the outdoors probably originated from her pet project to keep me out of the house. Once I had breakfast as a kid, the rest of the day was spent outdoors except in case of monsoon. I may have thought she was cruel a few times, especially when it was raining or on the brink of a winter blizzard but I always found an appropriate shelter, friends that welcomed me into their homes, and offered a few morsels of lunch or dinner to a kid bent on adventure. She just didn't want me sitting around all day watching the television. It worked. My love for the outdoors is directly proportional to the fact I used to hole-up every day, for several hours, in a quaint neighborhood green-belt called, "Bamford's Woods." It was only a few acres of evergreens and a few hardwoods, lots of ferns and critters, and it was just so perfectly suited to the poet in residence. There were so many places to hide-out watching the world unfold. I didn't need friends. I just sat there on an outstretched bough, comtemplating the novel I was going to write one day with this place as a backdrop.
I stopped again this afternoon, to once again admire the huge and magnificent lilac blooms, hanging heavy on the trees that border our lane here at Birch Hollow. And I thought about my dear old mother, who loved the budding spring more than any other time of the year. I feel she's been here already, for that last glimpse of life and family. Hopefully she liked what she saw, what she smelled and experienced here, on the homestead path at Birch Hollow. Truly it is a beautiful life. And she was part of it!

These Haunted Old Woodlands Beckon Me
This afternoon I've been antiquing here and there in this interesting old ballywick, in particular at an old Muskoka farmsite, with some of the few still active farmers in our burg. I love my enterprise. It's also true that it consumes me seven days a week with a hell of a lot of hours of hunting, refinishing, contemplating and negotiating....sometimes with my wife Suzanne, who has reservations about any more of anything getting into our modest home here at Birch Hollow. All winter we've been downsizing a large portion of our collection, simply because we have no place to store the old paintings, old chairs, old bottles, crocks and yes.....many, many books.
So once again I've arrived home here with a van load of creature comforts for us nostalgic folk. Son Andrew got a 1940's bicycle that he plans to use as an advertising sign for his vintage music business. He found some swell 78 RPM records and he chipped in and we bought mom some blue and yellow daisies right from the farmstead soil.....of course I'll have to dig her an appropriate garden with full sun. Suzanne claims we have too much shade to grow anything but jungle ferns.
I picked up some old tools, a rickety old ladder, some books, old ceramics, pitchers and vintage jewellry that should soften my partner, just enough to get some of these other more cumbersome antique items into the house.
When I started out in the antique and collectible business, it was pure recreation. I loved every moment I was out on the road looking for yard sales, estate clear-outs, hole-in-the-wall antique shops and most of all.....the country auction. I liked auctions so much I published an ongoing column called the "Auction Roll," for several years here in the local press. While admittedly I could get a little crazy at auction sales, blood pressure pulsing into a headache, I had the resolve to rebound from a lost bid to a winning bid. Today I have a patience problem and when an item I'm interested in finally comes up, well, I start sweating profusely and if no one sees my bids (cause I'm pretty good at the nod and wink), then my red face and uncontrolled chin fondling gives me up. And I've usually spent way more than I intended but that's what auctions are famous for....getting the tight wad to get mad at all those who wish to bid him up. That's me! You'd think a guy who used to write a column about auctions, and its protocol, would know when to quit advancing a bid. I don't. So I'm usually under close supervision, and within a sharp elbow's distance from a family member, willing to put me onto the ground if I pass the agreed limit determined prior to the start of bidding. Yup, it's that bad.
The antique and collectable industry has become a great deal more competitive for dealers today because there are more informed sale hosts, second hand shops, thrift shops, church bazaars and lawn sales. Even the auctions today are much more aggressively aimed at dealers and collectors, and it's next to impossible to purchase a job-lot these days, as items are sold one at a time, no matter how long it delays an auction. I loved those job-lots. I was at an auction that was on the verge of being rained out, and the auctioneer was putting ten and even twenty boxes of glasses, vases, kitchenware and vintage Christmas ornaments together for a couple dollar bid. We just bought a new van and it was the first major work-out, as we picked up about thirty boxes of nostalgia. Now getting a bargain is much tougher and the prices have quadrupled. You have to travel twice as far to get half as much, and with gas prices these days, it's getting pretty tough to run the business the same as we have for over twenty years.
So after getting home with whatever we've been able to stir up, at a half dozen sales and a few shop visits, I can't do one blessed thing beyond leashing our old hound Bosko, for a jaunt into the woodlands next door. I know there's a message here. Seek tranquility. Seek refuge from one's fetters. Escapism. But I adore antiquing. Yet I adore wandering these forest paths more.
As I have mentioned earlier in these collected blogs, my foray into the antique enterprise came at about the same time as I began my early explorations of the Muskoka hinterland; first as a treasure hunter, digging bottles from old homestead dumps. While I was out excavating a wide variety of sites, I would often stop for a brief hiatus, to make some notes in a small leather bound journal I kept in my backpack. From the first outings when most of the time was spent digging, to the final expeditions five years later, I was spending more time sitting on grassy knolls and rocky hillsides making notes, than sifting through the castoffs of yesteryear. I wrote thousands of pages detailing the particular woods I was visiting, and noting characteristics such as the windsong through the pinery, the sound of a myriad crystalline waterfalls along the course of the little creeks that criss-crossed the pastures.....the sounds of the birds in the branches overhead, the flights of squirrels leaping from bough to bough....the play of sunlight through the thick maple leaves on the hillsides, and the melancholy that permeated the abandoned homestead, as if the deceased were all watching me paint with words; speaking to me in so many ways about the life and times, the family, the victories and hardships, the births and deaths, the spirit of this place, or another, locked into a space between reality and memory.....imagination and truthful reconstruction of the cycles of life....in the giant ponder of "I wonder what it was like to live here back then."
While I wandered back to these haunted old homesteads thinking about the possibility of finding crockery soda bottles, old sealer jars, medicine bottles and china remnants, I never once participated in a dig that I wasn't acutely aware, and respectful of the site and the people that once dwelled here. I was always profoundly aware of the nature around me, and the eerie solitude at some sites,.... and the mysterious voices from thin air. There was outright good spirit at other locations bathed in full sunlight and refreshing breeze. I think about those times now as I stand here overlooking The Bog, feeling somewhat restored from a long day on the hustings, bumper to bumper traffic, sirens and horns, money spent, money earned.....and here I stand in this forgiving, natural place, where I have found solace once again.
I will probably never separate my passion for history from this mortal need to escape from all bustle, actual or perceived, and I'm not sure it will ever become an either-or. I'm sure my family finds it odd that I should require this escape to Thoreau's literary cabin, to escape all the excitement of a profession I confess.....I adore. I just adore this sanctuary a wee bit more.
Take a walk in the woods. What a rush. Now to return to the Walden Pond memoir, a book which I confess looks as if it has been run through a fanning mill.....but it's still quite readable.....I'd love a first edition but alas I shall never be that well off, as to afford such a luxury......suffice that this book meets the need and this forest meets all other requirements of any good day spent anywhere on this grand old earth.
-30-

Blog - April 2008
Confessional of an antique dealer and the lure of the great outdoors
I don't imagine that there are too many people right now, in this neighborhood or in yours, wishing as a first and only.... one to-be-granted request, to be immersed in the misty heart of a spring awakening woodlands, and that the only intrusion be the occasional winged creature, large or small, beating its path across your line of vision....or the soothing wash of the hundreds of little waterfalls that sound in unison, dropping the little creek at my feet many levels on the black snaking path toward the lake. Oh, there are probably a few folks who would like to push away from the office grind, pull away from the business community, the chores of the day, to stand here with the writer in his field, and admire what the good earth is all about. But it's a pretty small number of souls of all those in peril, and we wouldn't have any problem fitting in the eager "takers" on a pretty small knoll situated above the bog. Most would prefer a day at the spa if it came down to an "either-or", versus getting soakers treking through this lowland looking for tadpoles and newly emerging wildflower blooms.
It is so beautifully sun-bathed here now, the wetland and wooded hillside being washed in a most soothing, restorative sunlight, the buds on trees and sundry other shrubs by the trillions, are all in the throes of passionate rebirth....meeting sun and sky and heavens above with great expectation of the rains to come later, nourishing the blooms of mid May and full boughs of early summer when this sunscape will be shadowy and cool in the afternoon heat.
When I began working in the antique trade I was very much inspired by farm culture, pioneer ways and means, and open spaces where the collector/researcher could roam old homesteads and forgotten graveyards of which there are many dotted across the countryside.....one day to be disturbed unceremoniously by the urban developer's bulldozing brigade, stretching the cityscape where once farms and cultivated fields wavered in the misty morning light of its own fading history.
As a young antique collector/dealer, I never missed a farm auction and any sale outside the urban area of Bracebridge, Ontario. The exception was the occasional estate sale in town where there were plenty of antiques and provenance to the old days, old families, who founded the mid-Muskoka community. My greatest joy was to hunker down against an old gnarled maple, affording a soft landing place below and the shade against the summer sun, to watch a good old fashioned auction sale unfold. I lost a lot of girlfriends in the early going because this wasn't their idea of fun on a Saturday. True it was shopping but not the kind they held near and dear. To me it was heaven on earth because I was immersed in the natural day.....no hall with electric lighting for me - and I could watch and bid on important pieces of our heritage in natural comfort. I never once got bored watching a country auction. I used to write a column for the local press about auctioneering with advice on how to get the most for the least, the best and authentic antiques, and how to avoid breaking the bank and still get desired pieces. I wrote a lot of copy in my head sitting there on that clump of soft grass with a contoured shade tree at my back. While some of the great writers in history sat in cafes in Paris, and in tiny cottages on bluffs above the raging sea, I wrote with a tree at my back and the scent of spring lilacs permeating the air.
I said to my wife just the other day....(Suzanne has come to a thousand auctions and even admits to enjoying several) that I would love to throw-back to that golden era of antique questing.....and put ourselves back in the country scheme of things the way it always was..... As some of the great old auctioneers passed on or retired, the new brand of caller is enamoured by indoor sales and the total reduction of job-lots, which was always my favorite auction purchase......ten or so boxes of goodies being sold as one lot in the essence of time.....and the stuff yet to auction off. I got some of my best finds this way. But it was the country air, the feeling of open spaces, of history, of the pioneering spirit, that attracted us to these farm and estate auctions. We adored being able to wander throught the wildflowers in the left-fallow pastures, and bask in the sun on a meadow incline in between items we intended to bid on....watching our wee lads make little straw boats to float in battle upon the overgrown farm pond.
I suppose it is at the pioneer's expense, the more recent farm owner's demise or default that we are enjoying ourselves, and believe me I don't like the thought of that possibility......because of course we'd rather see these beautiful country estates and sprawling farms survive another century......but it would be fiction to believe this. Many old homesteads I attended for those concluding auctions decades ago, are now a memory in the criss-crossing of subdivision lanes and tennis court fencing.....somewhere under the swimming pool is a remnant of the root of the old maple tree I once used as a backrest.....ah, that's the change that hurts the soul.
My heritage as an antique dealer has always been with the outdoors.....and by insistence I expect it always will be.....and in my collection at any one time you will see this reflected by the many landscape paintings, the folk art, the treen ware that reminds me daily of the importance of nature in all our lives all of the time......despite the fact admittedly, only a few folks, at this precise moment in time, would care to jaunt through these haunted woods, at the expense of a dollar lost being non-productive in the new century order.
Whenever I feel weak of soul and lagging in spirit, and my body feels particularly urban-drained, and my inspiration low, a retreat to the woodlands here at Birch Hollow, restores good faith nature hasn't abandoned us......though it can be said with some accuracy, we have most definitely neglected a history-imprinted partnership. I could never turn my back on a friend. I might even take root here, standing for the better part of this morning, admiring the honest, pure pleasure of our natural places.

Muskoka Blog-site
I have been consumed, this long-long-long winter season, by the work of American writer/ philosopher, Henry David Thoreau, and I've spent many hours by this cedar-fueled, crackling hearth, reading about his stay at the humble cabin he built at Walden Pond. I agree with most of his reasoning for retreating from the often mindless hustle and complicated economy of his modern world, which was pioneer by all standard...but I've always pondered why he left after only a modest stay in paradise. My downfall would surely be the outright refusal to abandon what offered me enlightenment and such natural joy. No, I couldn't leave voluntarily. Unless I was real hungry.
My son and I trundled through The Bog, across from our home at Birch Hollow earlier today, taking some more photographs to include with this "Muskoka Blog," and there are times when I can visualize Thoreau himself wandering this spring rejuvenated landscape, getting some soulful inspiration watching frost melt free of the myriad new buds glistening on a trillion little branches reaching hardily toward the sunlight.....and the frothing little creeks that criss cross in black veins across the hollow. I can find numerous places where one might find a Thoreauesque cabin, such as upon the level shelf overlooking the main basin of this Bogland, where he most assuredly would have been afforded a decent view, for all seasons, of the comings and goings, the evolution, and adaptations of this wild place so close to the hubbub of daily activity in our small community. Thoreau wasn't particularly isolated in his cabin at Walden, and it is said his family made sure he was kept in fresh baking and supplies, such that he wouldn't die of starvation.....and only be mildly affected by loneliness.
What draws me to Thoreau is the same characterisitic that attracts me to the work of Canadian artists like Tom Thomson and the legendary Group of Seven. I know I'm missing the profound and important messages of natural life that I might pick up by osmosis, living in a cabin like Thoreau's, and I'm pretty sure I would find a myriad sparks of inspiration, canoeing an Algonquin waterway, as did Tom Thomson on his painting expeditions into the deep and storied lakeland once long ago.
As a career writer, it is my one lingering dissatisifaction with my own work. Staying connected with the wilderness, and learning from it, and being nurtured by what occurs naturally..... not artificially which is the polluted and intoxicating reality of a majority of functions in my so called civilized world.
I want to re-connect with the hinterland. It's the commencement of my life's last significant mission. As a long time writer and researcher, historian and author, I simply can't leave this mortal coil without a much clearer knowledge, about the lifeline modern civilization has abandoned....and wishes to find again.....and if we are to save the planet, and ourselves, we'd better find it soon. I think Thoreau gave us the reason to quest for a better, more natural existence.....a simpler plan, a lesser expectation of mortality to be a greater player in the natural order than intended.......just a respectable, considerate, conscience componet in the cycle of life. Nothing more, nothing less. Our zeal for progress has in so many ways enhanced our lives, and in so many others, been a history of civilizations self-strangulation.
Join me for adventures in the hinterland, with influences of mentors, Thoreau and Tom Thomson, two sources of inspiration who have never let me down.

Newspaper days were good, blogging is better
I have been writing an editor's retrospective feature column for the past few months, for a swell publication in Ontario, known as "Curious: The Tourist Guide." It's about my days working in the editorial department of a weekly newspaper formerly known as The Herald-Gazette, in Bracebridge, Ontario. I began as a cub reporter at a sister publication known as the Georgian-Bay/Muskoka Lakes Beacon, then published from the community of MacTier, south of Parry Sound. In the early 1980's I moved over to the news editor's position of the Herald-Gazette, and then on to full editorship, which included management positions with The Muskoka Advance, and The Muskoka Sun, a popular summer time publication.
From 1979 to 1989 belonging to Muskoka Publications here in the hinterland was a dream come true. After graduating from York University my girlfriend at the time wanted me to accept a job in the Toronto area. I couldn't do it! I came home to Muskoka, opened up my first antique shop in Bracebridge, known as Old Mill, and as most collectable dealers need, I looked for a supporting job to cover my extravagances.
I worked at these publications until management decided my irreverance and failure to worship them with full heart and soul, meant I was no longer committed to editorial excellence. Well as you may detect sarcasm, it was true that I was irreverent to a fault and I offer no apology. I just didn't agree with their management decisions and I simply couldn't deal with the way I was being minimized as a writer. I was a journeyman writer who could compose a story quickly, efficiently, accurately and responsibly.....and that guaranteed the publisher wasn't going to face a lawsuit because of my reporting shortfalls. As for editiorial excellence, well, very few of us can be excellent about our tasks all the time but whenever I was putting material together for public consumption, I didn't cut corners or offer-up crappy copy. They had changes they wanted to implement and they knew, rightly so, that I wasn't going to be shaped by anyone or any wild and whacky editorial scheme they thought would be the next money maker. I wasn't adverse to negotation but I didn't dance on command.
My years at the helm of The Herald-Gazette was a cherished time.....I loved to go to work and the fact I had some fine colleagues who mentored me constantly with sage advice, it was better than having spent tens of thousands of dollars in a university journalism course......this was immersion at its most precarious. Every word we put out there to the public could have meant a lawsuit, a firing, a reprimand.....and statements from the publisher like, "you'll never work in this business again." Being responsible and honest about the job was manatory if you wanted to stick around. One miscue was all it took to be dumped. I had an amazing ten years in the day to day operation of a community newspaper and for the most part it was a hoot. Even the difficult moments with management non-confidence, and incredibly draining press nights into the wee hours, political run-arounds and smoke and mirror games with news sources, we never hoisted those frosty mugs of draft at the local watering-hole, (after the paper was put to bed), that we didn't feel it was all worth the battlefield of hassle.
When I was unceremoniously forced from the paper with a drastic reduction of hours, which I assume they knew would force me to seek employment elsewhere, I lobbed myself unceremoniously over to the competing publication, which ended badly a half year later. All my mates knew it would and so did I frankly but it was still worth a try for experience's sake. For a number of years I reverted to my old standby, as an antique dealer, and we ran a successful small shop on upper Manitoba Street, in Bracebridge, with my business partner-bride Suzanne. This new antique business was called Birch Hollow which we still operate online today. This is when I began writing a freelance piece (I didn't ask for any remuneration) in the Muskoka Advance, a weekly Sunday paper, called "Sketches of Historic Muskoka." Following this was a huge and prolific period of demand when I was researching and writing features for The Muskoka Sun each winter from first snowfall to first lilac bloom. I wasn't doing it for the money. I just enjoyed writing and selling antiques. Not very complicated. I needed my antique business for profit but writing was for the good of a thriving soul. Eventually however, management decided to impose a few controls on this seasoned, gnarled, curmudgeon of a writer, and I said, well, stuff it! I had no shortage of publications that wanted my contributions but I determined in this universe-reaching new century that it was time to make my antique obsession turn over an occasional profit. It's a problem of all dealers.....we like to spend and that doesn't always balance with what we earn....but we're surrounded by a lot of neat old stuff with potential.
I remember telling a boss once, in a heated debate, that I didn't take the editor's job because of any prestige, or for that matter because it offered a great wage. It sucked. I was in it because of writing, and even as editor, to fill the big hulking white spaces between the ads I composed seven to ten articles and more each week. It was a co-operative newsroom task that by by necessity demanded lots of editorial submissions. The ads were coming and the writing requirements were growing proportionally.... and then there was the fact I simply loved my job, and writing was like a paying hobby. I've had a lot of publishers and managerial overseers snear at this comment, when I'd tell them quite bluntly....."you think I put up with you guys just for the meagre beer money stipend?"
I was thrilled to be able to spend a day writing. Just writing. No distractions, no banging-door meetings, no intrusions.....just writing. It has taken many decades to finally attain a solitude for writing. Back then there were always intrusions, always distractions, and there weren't many days when management could find calm satisfaction without a couple of lively meetings to trim up the troops. I loved it when they tried to motivate us! We were self-motivating period.
When we closed our antique shop in Bracebridge in the mid 1990's, moving it to our Gravenhurst home, and I began a different approach to writing, having a much higher standard of who I'd work with and for, my home office with computer became a nurturing, resource laden, inspiration oozing paradise. I could write for hours on end and never have one urgent request for my attendance at a disciplinary meeting. I was able to run my antique business on-line and world wide, and my writing enterprise, geez, I was free at last. I could write at any time of the day or night and not have calls and frequent, annoying raps on my door intrude upon the story-line. Sure there was the household din sometimes, because I was a Mister Mum to my two lads Andrew and Robert (looked after them while my wife went back to her teaching job), yet surprisingly, I seemed to write more and better with the voices of the lads playing in the other rooms. They play guitars now and have a music store here in Gravenhurst......their replacement noise being the play of three cats and a dog, snoring, growling, shreiking with the timely interuption. maybe an occasional nuzzle, when they've determined its feeding time at the zoo. I miss the boys but these critters are good company. It's sort of a passive news room.....they don't bark commands and get in my face, or bloody hell, ask me to take a used car photo for the advertising department.
I don't think I could ever go back to that time in my life, where I had to listen to my fetters, tell me how to write. Since I began writing in the mid 1970's as a struggling poet at York University, I have never had a period when I couldn't find a willing publication or media outlet interested in a freelance piece, and to this point in my life, it's pretty much the same although everyone around here notes I'm spending a lot more time in the antique field than with writing. With the opportunity to "blog-at-will" it has opened up a lot of doors, not just for me but for many other proficient and talented writers wishing to express themselves without the whining and nattering of publishers....worried about losing ads and readers because of a controversial stand.....the side taken on a political debate.....the impact it might have in social situations. I got pretty sick of the "good time was had by all" approach to journalism, and it pretty much created the conditions for my diminished position at the paper. I haven't been fired yet from this blog site. I'm pretty buzzed about that!
You know it goes back to childhood, this problem with bullies as bosses. Shortly after we arrived in town, moving north from Burlington, Ontario, I was just delighted to receive a warm and welcoming invitation to join the rank and file of the Bracebridge Cubs, and I was working on my first badges of accomplishment. I didn't have my uniform yet but for this one evening get-together, my mother insisted on buying me a brand new dress shirt and church pants as we used to call them....just to look mildly dapper and respective of club standards. We weren't rich folks and I didn't get a lot of new clothes so I was pretty proud of my attire. Mid way through the evening it was recreation time, and we were told the group would be playing British Bulldog....which was pretty dumb considering the number of kids and the small size of the Scout Hall. We'd run back and forth and attempt to avoid being tagged. Some of the touches were a tad heavy I noticed, to the point a few kids were falling into the wall. I was pretty good at the game and lasted until there were only several players left. I made my foray across and a kid grabbed me by the collar and ripped the whole back out of the shirt. There was even a lengthy red, multi finger claw mark, down about six or seven inches on my shoulder. Some of the other lads had similar wounds that needed tending, and outfits showing the rigors of rough play.
I went to the leader and said, "Hey, look what that guy did to my shirt?" "So?," was the limit of his sympathy. "Well, he's going to buy me another shirt," I retorted with a half Irish-Dutch demeanour, dragon-like by any other description. "Buzz off kid," said the leader. What happened next would have impressed that white attired, gun slinging cowboy, "Shane"....although I never hit anyone or pulled a gun.....well sir, I told him about his "skunky" attitude (it was the 1960's), and suggested that he was a pretty poor excuse for a leader......and that yes, he would be dipping into his retirement funds to buy me a new shirt. This isn't intended to discount the good work of the Cub Scout movement, just to suggest that at this time, the leader was a jerk.
My father later let the chap know he should have had more sense that to promote rugby rules in a game of indoor British Bulldog....but I don't think I ever got money for a new shirt. My mother just fixed it the best she could and life went on pretty much as it had before the incident. The Cub leader tried to be my good buddy for the next thirty odd years, especially when he'd try to sell me on writing a promo for his failing business...... but I never forgot that shabby treatment he bestowed on a trusting kid.
Guess it sums up my attitude today. There are still certain names from the former publishing business that are not to be spoken in our homestead..... and that's my right. But I don't let it become an entanglement.....in fact, if I do inadvertently think about some of these folks at all, it's because I always write better when I'm madly gnashing my teeth.....I'm a beggar for punishment but it works, it works! You wouldn't believe the huge volume of manuscripts penned in anger. Surprisingly, they don't read as angry and vengeful as I felt at time of penning!
We all have our markers from the past that make us cringe, send fear and trembling through our hearts, and yet make us appreciate how far we've come, to become so pleasantly, successfully independent.
When my son Robert, who helps me polish and then publish this blog, asked me bluntly how I feel about blogging versus writing for a publication.....I said "Well, that's easy......liberated." It does take a while to get used to, so for comfort's sake I often write while imagining a former boss hovering over my shoulder, trying to read my copy......to make helpful, "I know better than you," additions and deletions...."to make the story more suitable to our readers." It's kind of like hitting your hand with a hammer because it feels damn good when you stop.
Thanks for joining me on this most recent blog submission.

Muskoka
The Hours Before Yet Another Winter StormThe March Lamb Eaten By The Lion
It seems every week there are storms whipping up from the Gulf to bring hardship to beleagured Canadians, pondering
whether this is the beginning of the new globally alterede weather-normal. Actually, I get quite a laugh at all the armchair critics
these days because the winter this year isn't any where near the quality and quantity of many back to back winters when I was
growing up here in the Ontario hinterland. And I'm not an old fart either! It was always the case that winter wasn't officially over until the 24th of May weekend, and it was to be anticiapted that there
would be wintery forays even into June......that it wouldn't jar us into the realm of the twilight zone to have a few snowflakes land
on our heads even in June. I can remember many wicked storms in March and a few in April, with snow layering over the
daffodils in our front garden down on Ontario Street below the former Bracebridge high school. So now when some
hypothicating armchair general tells me that it's all the work of a declining universe and global warming, then I will remind one
and all that global warming has been around thusly for a long time.....if present weather is the barometer of change. The winters I
am writing about are from the 1960's and 70's, not ancient history. From the on-air descriptions of the newest stormfront to bring hardship upon the population, it would appear the end is upon
us. This afternoon! It must be a rating binge that makes weather prognosticators make these embellished storm claims because
frankly not one this year has measured up to the adjectives they used on the gaping-mouthed viewership, anticipating that they
should bid a speedy farewell to friends and family before the end arrives. While I always watch the daily weather updates
because I do wish to prepare for dangerous natural events, the storms they predict usually fizzle well short of the pounding we
have prepared ourselves to receive. Today we have heard so many bulletins that even taking a buzz to the corner store seems
too risky, in case the freezing rains arrive before I can get back home. Scaring the crap out of people is crappy for the local
economy.....the god fearing weather watchers with their noses pressed to the window glass to watch the grim reaper rise over
the horizon tree line. It's all about fear these days. It has become quite marketable like the time during the Cuban Missile crisis
and Cold War when folks were building bomb shelters. While this is not a denial that bad weather doesn't occur, or that global
warming isn't a fact, but a few historians have presented some pretty compelling evidence of wicked periods of weather activity
in the past.....there was an ice-age afterall. Does that ring a bell? Do we really believe we can change what nature has ultimately
in store? I'm a pretty active environmental watch-dog around here but the fear mongering is putting many folks in hiding; not
helping the planet recover. Having a respect for nature and her patterns of the past seems a worthy point of investigation......and
is this the beginning of a harsh new cycle of an ever evolving globe? How much is global warming and how much is the inevitable
march of time and evolution? We've been getting alarmist reporting of weather.......these days, more for ratings than for accuracy. The storms we have
received so far this year are run of the mill period. Inconvenient. Only in Toronto. Here in the outback of southern Central
Ontario, well, bring it on! We're not stupid enough to sign off on winter weather in February like some, and we've made it part
of our daily existence to cope with God's will. So I won't really be holing-up to avoid the predicted storm.....just watching to see
if, this time, those who predict the weather can......like horseshoes, come within a wee distance of actually predicting a real arse
kicking storm, versus the fluff-er-nutter of inclement weather that at the most chills our old bones, and makes a few of us slip
slide away. Just a cranky watcher in the woods' opinion on an otherwise spectacular March day.

A Long Hard Winter – But Isn’t it Beautiful Here in Muskoka

This has been a critical turning point winter season here at Birch Hollow. It’s been one of those dedication periods of a life, when stock simply has to be taken. My stock. My stuff. All of it jammed into an archives room that was too small ten years ago but I decided to make new acquisitions fit none the less. If architecture could cry this room would be screaming. So it has been two months now of sorting, selling-off, and distributing materials to various organizations, such as local archives and heritage groups. I really burdened myself and our home with all this historical material….but then I am an historian afterall…..apparently an obsessive one at that! Funny, I used to call other collectors obsessive. I never thought of myself as “having to” do anything but obviously I had to have all this assorted literature. There are stacks twenty books high.
This is probably the first winter since I began writing in earnest back in 1977, from my portal onto the world, in the McGibbon home on upper Manitoba Street, in Bracebridge, that I have under-composed in the prime authoring season. I have always been much more prolific in the autumn and winter season…..and would much prefer penning pieces during a howling snow storm than on a calm summer night with nothing but distant lightning flashes and insects hitting the window screen.
I haven’t even been traveling much through the woodlands in our neighborhood this winter because of the treacherous conditions along my old pathway into The Bog. This is of great disappointment because dog Bosko and I spend hours every day wandering amongst the birches and cedars and following the tracks of a thousands critters that make this woodland home. So it is with a heavy heart that I inform readers of this blog that I have not provided much in the way of new editorial material this winter so far but have high hopes for the spring and summer.
One of the biggest decisions I have made in my life so far this industrious winter season, other than to become a senior “roadie” for my two boys’ band and music enterprise, here in Gravenhurst, is to pull away from political involvement and community heritage groups……that often leave me at a loss for words. Sometimes miffed, a little confused and frequently angry about their shortfalls in sensibility and application, I have little will to reform the unreformable. My days of trying to wrench social justice and fair, sensible play from local political representatives, here in Muskoka are over. While I will never give up the mission to save our neighborhood and the environment generally, I feel too old now to effect much change among the dunderheads who believe nary a shrub should survive economic development.
There are too many philosophical divisions between my appreciation and pursuit of heritage matters than the commercial-economic ambitions of historical wannabes….how they paint the historical mural they want to portray to the public….the visitors to the community, the glossy “good time was had by all” image….that is marketable, saleable, to the gullible! My appreciation of history is a realistic mix of life and times, success and tragedy, failure and misfortune, contentment and fulfillment. Honest assessment of what happened here since the late 1950’s is critically important to me as an historian and I won’t be a part of painting a pretty picture of local heritage to please market expectation.
My history is the history of the people who built the community from the first homesteaders to the present. I don’t glamorize the folks with the most money and the businesses that raised the biggest profit. What I do appreciate is the history of the citizens who worked together to build a community….the bakers and clerks, loggers and preachers, the waiters and waitresses, sign painters and candlestick makers. I would rather sit and talk to a descendant of a pioneer furniture maker, farmer, tanner or brick layer than research the construction of a building or edifice…..or quagmire down in the details of local politics and the eras of the big wigs and posturing celebrities, buffoons and assorted glad handers looking to inspire the historian’s pen. Naw, I can’t find myself selling out to the new vested interest, old Fezziwig noted when asked to sell out his life and sense of well being to modernization, technology, and diminishing individuality of place and person, in Dickens “A Christmas Carol.” No, I shall remain loyal to the old ways and die out with them if I must.
I’m much more fulfilled as an historian walking through Muskoka’s pioneer cemeteries than paying to see artifacts in glass showcases in a museum. I am a museum supporter and did found one and help save another in my “wanting to belong years,” but I got tired of being pounded by financial concerns, poor numbers, poorer grant allocations, and volunteerism out the whazoo. My museum days were spent begging rather than researching and developing because it always came down to the almighty buck. Every meeting, all meetings, were weighted with financial burdens. I don’t feel to many burdens walking in the peaceful, historic graveyards, respectfully remembering the good folks who represent the real and important heritage of our region. They were the history makers. The force behind all that happened here. The characters. Boy oh boy, there are a lot of characters represented by these lichen covered markers. Some historians have simply forgotten about the lives and contributions made by these heroes…..and honor artifacts and edifices as if the sum total of history is physical presence only. It is a depersonalization of heritage such that we honor things and buildings more than the folks responsible for their creation and construction. I will always invest in the heritage of people versus “history as a good show.”
All this work in the family archives has made me a rather keen fellow for what I wish and do not wish to do in the future. I do wish to take this book, just recently recovered from mounds of old titles, of Thoreau’s “Walden,” more seriously, especially after my wife has traced her family heritage back to the well known American author. I still don’t believe it but there it is……Thoreau had some Shea molecules in him…..and a really nice cabin from which to write. I’m trying to convince my wife that I should have a cabin to fulfill my writing ambitions……now that kin have verified its value to the creative spirit.
More coming soon. Maybe from a cabin in the woods. You never know!