Muskoka was what it was.....my home district and nothing else mattered
I've been a regional historian in these hinterland parts too long now to accept unfounded, poorly researched generalizations. There are times when I read some self-serving historical tome, and what the author presents as my home region of Ontario, is as foreign to me as if I had resided, for all those years, in any other district but this.....my own years of dedicated research, and actually living here for most of my life, apparently nothing more than a flutter of back-to-back silly and misleading dreams. There is a strange new arrogance settling-in, and I sense a profound distancing from the citizens' history of once, to the newly developing chronicles of the region's social, business and financial elite. While that has its place, the best of the best being depicted on a mural somewhere (I’ve only seen it once), I'm not sure the labours and good citizenry of the baker, train station clerk, bank teller, school teacher or waitress, amongst so many unsung heroes, will ever get the ink, even in overview, they surely deserve for contributing to the community's many accomplishments. It's not to deny the hustle and goodwill of the movers and shakers, who by their proficiency and leadership made things happen through political and economic fortitude.... but it will never, for this historian, be enough to dismiss, or minimize the components of the small but mighty engine that made community life and times, run so consistently through all the precarious ups and downs over these many decades.
One thing's for sure,.... I'm not going to lose my own reminiscences about the Muskoka I adore, and my hometown of Bracebridge, ......that offered me a splendid environs for an exciting young young life..... duly occupied as a wide-eyed kid drinking-in all that the 1960's and 70's had to offer....because I've preserved those memories in many, many penned vignettes, some that I will share in the course of these newly released blog submissions; but today despite an ongoing love for my former hometown, I no longer find the consistent, related and enduring parallels between the old days I studied, and the changing emphasis today on what is worthy of an historian's ink......I am a fierce defender of preserving, with the same sense of importance and priority, the humble celebrity-free reminiscences of the everyday folk, who raised families here, worked after hours with clubs and charitable organizations, coached, tied-up skates and drove players to out of town games always at their own expense.......and well made our neighborhoods memorable and strong..... and added so much to the local economy, and its diversification for so long. These lesser historical details, and hardworking citizens, without a shred of glitz or even one bold headline attached to their names, are no less important than tales of Mayor and Council's exploits and political milestones. These human attributes are important to me because it's exactly what I want my kids and grandkids to know about the unpretentious, unselfish, "one-for-The-Gipper" town where it all began. What I read about Bracebridge today makes me wonder what happened to the old one.....and what was so wrong with its century plus patina that its image needed to be replaced by an overkill of blatant new-century bolstering of ego-burdened "leader worship". Very little of what I read today about Bracebridge, seems to relate at all to the kind of hometown it was then in actuality.....and all the emphasis has been placed on the most prominent citizens, the political big wheels and the largest of large investors who apparently raised a town all on their own......and if ever there was an identifiable elite recognition peak in Bracebridge..... it is now. It seems to be a generalizing arrogance that has made clear distinctions that government is vastly more significant in every aspect of community life.....and that there really isn't any need to discuss anything else of a lesser prominence as being worthy social and cultural contributors. As I don't care for the way the community is being portrayed today, well, I'd like to share a few stories about the town I knew.....and it did have holes in its underwear so to speak but nobody really cared about shortfalls.....every rural town had deficiencies associated with hinterland living.....but from our perspective as former urban dwellers in Southern Ontario, our family was infinitely more concerned about enjoying the natural enhancements living in this beautiful district of Muskoka. We left the city because it was a city. And Bracebridge was a good and safe place to nurture and be nurtured.
As a preamble to this small collection of hometown chronicles, I must note that the above passage is a credible overview of my opinion of what my hometown has become in the past ten years. I was reminded of this when my mother Merle died in May 2008, and I spent a lot of time that spring thinking back about the town we moved to in the winter of 1966, the community we grew to adore, because of its general acceptance of commonplace and well being without any need for image pumping.....and what I perceive has changed about the neighborhoods we lived, played in, enjoyed road hockey games upon, and participated in oh so many adventures all the live long day. What I found has happened from then to now, is a clear and purposeful distortion of history to suit a purpose, accomplish some unspecified gain.......how Bracebridge actually advanced since the 1860's contrasts starkly the touched-up image promoted today in print, with chest-thumping boastfulness,.... an awkward distancing from the factual accounting of the bumps, bulges and worts we sported for a hell of a long time in this town, without ever being self conscious as a community. It's almost as if some are embarassed by certain aspects of our heritage and wish to conceal it.....and recognize only the most successful and proud moments of the past. It's not the historian's job to sanitize the facts but to present them in perspective...... the critical parts that make up the whole. I know the difference between the propaganda and image liberties taken, and what actually still exists of the old town and district ways and means....still modestly ticking-along beneath the sickly sweet icing the sculptors insist on applying for good looks etc., to meet all potential photo ops and media scrutiny. You know what happens to facades over time......they just decay away as they should.
What you won't find in local history cause...... well, it's not the history some like to promote!
Bracebridge has had a pretty normal run of luck. Same as all hamlets, villages and towns in the world! Some good, some bad. And it really hasn’t had any choice but to deal with it and move on, as they say. It has had its share of everyday nuisances and problems, a few substantial misadventures, impediments and disasters throughout its modest 150 years of settlement......., some record keepers arguing that it's infinitely better to let this contrary heritage bury in the sediment raised in the wake of accomplishment and advancement. Its unwritten record includes run-of-the mill jousting with problem prostitutes, die-hard boot-leggers, young and old drunkards, murderers, sundry other felons and frauds, and an assortment of bad neighbors who liked to whomp each other to settle property and family disputes. We even had an in-town neighborhood known by the perpetually derogatory title of "Nigger Hollow," allegedly named after the dark skinned employees who worked in the local tanneries and lived in the small homes on the south side of town .....still known today as "The Hollow." While it is absolute history that this name was used up to and including the 1960's by some folks, it has been avoided by most historians who should know better than to attempt to revise the past because of their own discomfort. What about those folks, the citizens who lived in that Hollow, and had to face that reference daily?
While there are many mentions of town disasters and set-backs faced by the community, there has been considerable sanitizing of history such that one might be shocked to know houses of ill-repute were a fact of life in this little town straddling the 45th parallel of latitude. The loggers knew about them and so did the tannery workers..... and so did the wives apparently, and the local constables did their best to remove them from the business community.....but they kept re-locating based on demand. Now while the purists are curling their lips in anger and outrage, and the hackles are raising, rest assured I know my stuff and I wouldn't offer you even the slightest mistruth to boost readership. But as I have argued with local historians for years, ignoring historical details because they're not particularly complimentary to the image desired of the "old hometown," doesn't make them go away....rather they're left for another day when some ambitious and dogged reporter-historical type decides to dig in an area where no other shovels have been imbedded. What then? Denial? Refusal to acknowledge the less than desirable aspects of historical record? Most towns have a unexplored heritage... stories about a goodly number of criminal types who some say "gave the town a black eye," because of their actions......and don’t warrant any kind of recognition. In my opinion the true dynamic of a history worth wearing, is that it does exhibit worts and blisters.....and that there is no way a hometown or city can truly come to terms with its past without taking into full account all the problems and obstacles overcome. Call it a worthiness to be anyone's home town, that it carries all its history, good or bad, an asset or a burden with the clear resolve....... that it has survived despite adversity and disadvantage, prejudice and bigotry onward to repair and restitution. When you read some of the "good times were had by all" histories from a lot of towns in our country, it's obvious there was an inherent and justifiable fear of bad reputation and its potential to hurt business.
Today however, we've come a long way in being able to consider faults and assets as a patina of community life, like it or not.....of course we haven't always done everything right for all these years. But would any one expect to advance 150 odd years without blemishes, failures, misadventures and catastrophes? Is it possible we can live in a town all these decades and be crime free? And while the truth about a lot of community news was censored and sanitized for a host of reasons, there wasn't a citizen old enough to vote who couldn't find the message between the lines, of any of these stories, or the ones curiously omitted, and know exactly the proportion and weight of editorial control over the public's right to know. It's still done today and we always know there's more to the story than what we're permitted to access. Some of this we accept. Then come the historians who don't particularly care if they step on toes, and what was buried is newly exhumed. Maybe we're shocked. Possibly not! Unfortunately much of this will take a lot longer to chip away because some overseers still believe any deviation away from accepted historical accounting will hurt a community. With honesty? Or the fact it was covered up for so many decades by people over-riding the public's right to know? But I had so much to learn. So much sensitivity to develop. So here I was a hometown kid, a keener historian looking to cut his teeth on some good local stuff, and an apprentice editor of the local press........that I may or may not have believed contributed to telling stories rounded at the edges. Boy was I in for discovery by immersion. I couldn't have been more advantaged, truth be known!
So here is a wee contradiction of sorts that I discovered from a self-imposed deep immersion......the wish to find out more about my hometown because at last I had a vested interest, the need to relate stories, and a desire to do so with accuracy to earn readers’ respect. I didn't understand any of this when I began as a newspaper editor back in the late 1970's, and on through the 1980's. I took over the task of editorship at a time when I was working feverishly as an historian, driven to find the truth and set it free.....to hell with the consequences. So what I am about to relate in a series of blogs is as much my own confessional......what I discovered about my community and what made me understand some of the protectionism, some of the reluctance to be entirely forthright because of anticipated dangers and consequences to largely unsuspecting families, who didn’t know quite everything about the activities of their ancestors. I suppose that makes me a part of a conspiracy to cover-up history. Thus the contradiction. Yes, there were many discoveries made pawing through local archives, news clippings, and documents, that would have startled the bejesus out of those who fear these kind of undertow revelations. I never turned away from even one of these accidental but important discoveries. And each one did influence my approach and my understanding of local heritage to this day. Serendipity is the way we historians advance our story-lines. One discovery leading to three other leads.
These blogs in preparation, will be sincere recollections about events, folks I knew, activities I got up to, and things I saw that were never, never meant for the public eye. Yet when they are all complete, and I feel that Bracebridge has been adequately overviewed and recalled from my own experiences, I think you'll find on the other side, a very real, honest and cherished portrayal of "Our Town,".......an amalgamation of so many characters, so many ambitions, happiness, sorrow, optimism, realism, content and discontent, all adding to the hue of patina I see when I cross the Silver Bridge on a misty spring morning, and look with affection upon the same main street as once, bustling as it always has, one full and busy day to the next. But there are no denying the ghosts of the past. I think immediately of the soldiers of the 122nd Muskoka Battalion marching down this street in preparation for overseas deployment in the First World War. The funeral processions that wound through these same streets with the victims of the great influenza outbreak after the war, and the day witnesses watched on this same street as an iron lung passed up Manitoba Street.....sending a ripple of mounting fear throughout the citizenry that there was a polio outbreak in Bracebridge. The parades. So many Santa Claus parades marched along this same corridor to the thunderous cheers of young and old. And it was the street my mother Merle used to love strolling, in modern history, taking my wee sons for their daily walk, to get their treat at the five to a dime store while I tended shop up the street. It was the mainstreet I used to hang around on Saturday mornings because it was an interesting place to people-watch.
As an apprentice historian/ editor, my mentor newspaper giant, Robert J. Boyer, led me to the downstairs archives in the former Herald-Gazette building, on Bracebridge's Dominion Street, where thousands of old newspapers were bound and stacked.....and he said.....while chomping down on his gnarled old cigar....."If you're interested in history....this should keep you busy for a few years."
In all my years working in his company Bob never once discouraged me from seeking out the facts of local history, or discussing something I wasn't sure about, or didn't quite appreciate the inherent sensitivity. While I was ruthless to begin with, and wanted to expose everything there was to exploit, Bob allowed me in on a few realities about what is known, what is truthful, and what is responsible representation and presentation of history. What he taught me was to learn and learn more, and never stop looking for the hinge to all else, while at the same time using that knowledge as a base of power;.... not just as a source for senseless and selfish exploitation. While I had been tutored by many well versed and accomplished historians during my university years in Toronto, Bob was by far the mentor who forced me to qualify and justify my facts like no other, and sculpt responsible opinions that could be steadfastly defended. I think Bob decided to make me a project and I'm glad he did. While we didn't always see eye to eye on all editorial conundrums, we generally found the way to compromise such that we both left a debate feeling respectfully successful. His was the wisdom garnered from decades of involvement in a newspaper industry, totally imbedded in all aspects of the community. Mine was the enthusiasm to consume as much of that knowledge as Bob was willing to lend, because I needed those critical insights and advisories to do my job properly. We did clash on occasion when I brought too much aggression and recklessness to the job;..... reflective of that cumbersome over-confidence of youth and inexperience. Yet he was the one gentleman I eagerly listened to because he was always honest and fair, and willing to infill what I was missing about the protocols of responsible journalism, and vulnerabilities of small town life and times. Bob never told me how to write or what to write about but he wasn’t shy pointing out important counterpoints....this from a man who had lived the history he wrote about. His sage advisories could never have been misconstrued as meddling or any attempt to censor what was clear fact. I only wish I'd told him of my sincere appreciation for his tutoring before we moved on with our lives and projects.
The recollections are all based in one way or another on the platform of history....rigorously exposed but not exploited to gain a readership. It was my resolve to know as much about local history as possible....all the details, all the suspicions investigated, all the muck kicked around and stepped through;.... not simply on the impetus and self-serving interests of a good story for a pay cheque but to genuinely possess a dimensional, all-sides considered foundation of undisputed knowledge. A base from which to build responsibly, with precision, as an historian devoted to public education. I'd rather know than not know.....and I've never censored out fact because it was an inconvenient truth. So the foundation of each story is solidly anchored on a wide and deep knowledge of all the events and milestones in my old hometown......but don't expect scandalous revelations for the sake of an audience. It doesn't mean I haven't been influenced by their occurrence at some point;....... just as I've been affected by so many other incredibly uplifting and inspirational events, and characters, I've been happily associated with over the decades. Hope you enjoy the small offering of hometown life as I knew it growing up in Bracebridge, Ontario, Canada, and as a former editor of Bracebridge's revered publication, The Herald-Gazette.
So what comes immediately to mind when I think back to those first years living up in the Weber apartments, up on Alice Street? Well, the cutting, rattling, invasive but always welcome train horn! Many times a day. The clickety-clack of trains pounding along the silver rails at 40 below and the unsettling, almost eerie stab of horn through the January night. I never really understood why we could hear it so clearly being situated quite a distance beyond and above the river-basin train station, just below the town's main street. I remember the wicked wind we had to endure crossing the Hunt's Hill bridge and the promises made to God to let us cross over without dieing.....in return for Christian behavior at home and school. When one of our mates fell for the allure of frosted-over ironworks, placing his tongue on the railing, what the hell else were we supposed to do but kick his arse and drop his pants?
I got beat up by local thugs, a family of miserable bastards and equally nasty cohorts, for stepping between the villains and my friend......who when freed ran home, leaving me to get whomped.... but good.... for my intrusive good nature. For this act of open defiance I was granted about two weeks of punch-outs, which damaged my jaw for life, and when school administration failed to act.....I pulled a "Shane" out of my hat, and hoofed the head thug in the nuts, rapping knuckles of both hands into the squishy, miserable faces of my pursuers. And bloody hell, I got hauled into the principal's office for fighting in the school yard. By golly, I took them with me and that felt real good. So I know what you're thinking.....this good fella is the same one who dropped a poor lad's pants, who had his tongue stuck to the railing of the bridge over the coldest river in the world. A balance of justice I suppose.
I loved school and enjoyed football games with Father Heffernan who used to organize lunch and recess matches on the sideyard of Bracebridge Public School.....our very own Father O'Malley (Bing Crosby - Going My Way and Bells of St. Mary’s). I loved to play road hockey up on Alice Street and over on Liddard and Aubrey Streets with school mates, and we played a thousand games of baseball and shinny on Frank and Ivy Henry's property behind the Hospital; and of course we biked a trillion miles around this district to swim and chase adventure.
I traversed the snowbound ribbon rails on winter nights, after walking my girlfriend Linda home, and I must have skated a thousand miles at the Bracebridge arena, holding her hand and dreaming of a future together. I sat on the bank at Bass Rock, our swimming hole on the Muskoka River, watching the hippies smoke dope, and nearly drowned in the bay when I tried to swim across with a friend....while holding my clothes in one hand above. I scraped my arse clean of skin when our soap box racer lost its wheels on Flynn's hill on Richard Street, and I got stomach aches that would pop your eyes, eating the little green apples we swiped off the trees that lined the neighborhood.
I can get sentimental to tears thinking back to Bamford's Corner Store and Black's Variety on Toronto Street, where I spent tens of thousands of cents buying black balls and pop, comics and Lucky Elephant Popcorn, and where most of my childhood was imprinted....the bum imprints we all left on the wooden stoop of Lil and Cec's (when Black's store was sold) on so many lengthy philsophical sojourns long into summer nights, when it was a meeting-spot for hot-rodders and neighborhood tough-guys. We loved them all because they were too cool to take their pop bottles back for the refund....and gladly dumped on us kids. I didn't have even one tiny image-issue cashing in someone else's pop bottle.
I played baseball at Jubilee Park, on the hottest summer afternoon's in history. Got stuck in left field but hit a few dingers in my day. Played a lot of hockey up at the James Street arena, and as a goaltender, never got equipment that actually protected my body parts......until that era's arena manager Tom Robinson helped me order my own equipment from a sporting goods catalogue they sent to his office. Got a decent reputation as an up and coming goalie until I tried out for the Junior C Bears and took one too many slapshots to the groin.....and when coach Danny Poland asked whether or not I was puck shy.....all I could do was nod 'cause I sure as hell couldn't speak due to the lower body pain.
I loved the Alice Street apartment where we lived because it was like a commune. Nobody shut their doors unless it was time to go to bed and it was a great sub-community in a kindly working-class neighborhood where everybody cared.......and one person's kid belonged to the street which was both good and bad depending on what kind of kid you happened to be! Residents on the street didn't show any reserve at all about phoning my mother to let her know of my latest, greatest exploit....which may have been the unlawful removal of ripe tomatoes from Gord Black's beautiful garden, or the swiping of a cooling pie from a window ledge that looked as if it had been made for me. I sort of remember removing the wheels from Seth Hillman's lawnmower so Al, Rick and I could get wheels for our hot rod.
I loved my mates and I never would have imagined a time or circumstance that would have pulled us apart. I could not have fathomed any circumstances except death to divide us.....when they would move away or marry outside the circle of friends we had been for decades. It was my own Peter Pan passion for the good times of childhood we all enjoyed growing up in Bracebridge, despite the knocks, bruises and misadventures. No, I didn't want to grow up. I didn't want to move away from Alice Street. And it's true that one day I would like to move back for the sake of so many ghosts with no one to organize them into a road hockey playoff. I didn't know anything about politics and I had no interest in social standing, and couldn't have cared-less about having any more money than it cost for a cold pop, a bag of chips to share with my mates, and maybe a small sack of black balls to get me through to the next dinner-time. I was naive, just as I am today, about preserving these precious memories......protecting the truths, the intimate details of what it truly meant belonging to a "hometown"......particularly what it meant to a transplanted city kid. Here are some of my fondest recollections of my early days in Bracebridge. They are all retold with the reverence I have for social history and hopefully provide a different perspective to other penned histories.....some I can relate to, others I can not.....many that I find flawless, others I find pretentious, pompous and misguided. They are honest and heartfelt attempts to tell it the way it was.....without any intent to alter, embellish or redefine history as it has all played out.
I’ve led an historian’s life. I live in a house jammed with histories of the world, work of great writers and profound philosophies penned by the most noted visionaries. I am comfortable with history. Glad I remained faithful to my profession despite setbacks....some anticipated, others quite unexpected yet understood. Sometimes I’ve had regrets. I’ve been shunned for what I know and the opinions I have expressed in the past. I’ve suffered retribution and it has at times been a lonely pre-occupation. Yet I cling to the belief that when I’m judged finally on the merit of content and responsible handling of history, I think what I have brought forth will be deemed balanced, honest and insightful to all who have a sincere interest in the promotion of heritage generally. As for pleasing all......I shall not lose any sleep if my adversaries continue to sharpen their claws for retaliation. I’m always prepared for a good and lengthy debate. Thank you for taking the time to read this introductory blog.....and please join me for more histories to come.
I've been a regional historian in these hinterland parts too long now to accept unfounded, poorly researched generalizations. There are times when I read some self-serving historical tome, and what the author presents as my home region of Ontario, is as foreign to me as if I had resided, for all those years, in any other district but this.....my own years of dedicated research, and actually living here for most of my life, apparently nothing more than a flutter of back-to-back silly and misleading dreams. There is a strange new arrogance settling-in, and I sense a profound distancing from the citizens' history of once, to the newly developing chronicles of the region's social, business and financial elite. While that has its place, the best of the best being depicted on a mural somewhere (I’ve only seen it once), I'm not sure the labours and good citizenry of the baker, train station clerk, bank teller, school teacher or waitress, amongst so many unsung heroes, will ever get the ink, even in overview, they surely deserve for contributing to the community's many accomplishments. It's not to deny the hustle and goodwill of the movers and shakers, who by their proficiency and leadership made things happen through political and economic fortitude.... but it will never, for this historian, be enough to dismiss, or minimize the components of the small but mighty engine that made community life and times, run so consistently through all the precarious ups and downs over these many decades.
One thing's for sure,.... I'm not going to lose my own reminiscences about the Muskoka I adore, and my hometown of Bracebridge, ......that offered me a splendid environs for an exciting young young life..... duly occupied as a wide-eyed kid drinking-in all that the 1960's and 70's had to offer....because I've preserved those memories in many, many penned vignettes, some that I will share in the course of these newly released blog submissions; but today despite an ongoing love for my former hometown, I no longer find the consistent, related and enduring parallels between the old days I studied, and the changing emphasis today on what is worthy of an historian's ink......I am a fierce defender of preserving, with the same sense of importance and priority, the humble celebrity-free reminiscences of the everyday folk, who raised families here, worked after hours with clubs and charitable organizations, coached, tied-up skates and drove players to out of town games always at their own expense.......and well made our neighborhoods memorable and strong..... and added so much to the local economy, and its diversification for so long. These lesser historical details, and hardworking citizens, without a shred of glitz or even one bold headline attached to their names, are no less important than tales of Mayor and Council's exploits and political milestones. These human attributes are important to me because it's exactly what I want my kids and grandkids to know about the unpretentious, unselfish, "one-for-The-Gipper" town where it all began. What I read about Bracebridge today makes me wonder what happened to the old one.....and what was so wrong with its century plus patina that its image needed to be replaced by an overkill of blatant new-century bolstering of ego-burdened "leader worship". Very little of what I read today about Bracebridge, seems to relate at all to the kind of hometown it was then in actuality.....and all the emphasis has been placed on the most prominent citizens, the political big wheels and the largest of large investors who apparently raised a town all on their own......and if ever there was an identifiable elite recognition peak in Bracebridge..... it is now. It seems to be a generalizing arrogance that has made clear distinctions that government is vastly more significant in every aspect of community life.....and that there really isn't any need to discuss anything else of a lesser prominence as being worthy social and cultural contributors. As I don't care for the way the community is being portrayed today, well, I'd like to share a few stories about the town I knew.....and it did have holes in its underwear so to speak but nobody really cared about shortfalls.....every rural town had deficiencies associated with hinterland living.....but from our perspective as former urban dwellers in Southern Ontario, our family was infinitely more concerned about enjoying the natural enhancements living in this beautiful district of Muskoka. We left the city because it was a city. And Bracebridge was a good and safe place to nurture and be nurtured.
As a preamble to this small collection of hometown chronicles, I must note that the above passage is a credible overview of my opinion of what my hometown has become in the past ten years. I was reminded of this when my mother Merle died in May 2008, and I spent a lot of time that spring thinking back about the town we moved to in the winter of 1966, the community we grew to adore, because of its general acceptance of commonplace and well being without any need for image pumping.....and what I perceive has changed about the neighborhoods we lived, played in, enjoyed road hockey games upon, and participated in oh so many adventures all the live long day. What I found has happened from then to now, is a clear and purposeful distortion of history to suit a purpose, accomplish some unspecified gain.......how Bracebridge actually advanced since the 1860's contrasts starkly the touched-up image promoted today in print, with chest-thumping boastfulness,.... an awkward distancing from the factual accounting of the bumps, bulges and worts we sported for a hell of a long time in this town, without ever being self conscious as a community. It's almost as if some are embarassed by certain aspects of our heritage and wish to conceal it.....and recognize only the most successful and proud moments of the past. It's not the historian's job to sanitize the facts but to present them in perspective...... the critical parts that make up the whole. I know the difference between the propaganda and image liberties taken, and what actually still exists of the old town and district ways and means....still modestly ticking-along beneath the sickly sweet icing the sculptors insist on applying for good looks etc., to meet all potential photo ops and media scrutiny. You know what happens to facades over time......they just decay away as they should.
What you won't find in local history cause...... well, it's not the history some like to promote!
Bracebridge has had a pretty normal run of luck. Same as all hamlets, villages and towns in the world! Some good, some bad. And it really hasn’t had any choice but to deal with it and move on, as they say. It has had its share of everyday nuisances and problems, a few substantial misadventures, impediments and disasters throughout its modest 150 years of settlement......., some record keepers arguing that it's infinitely better to let this contrary heritage bury in the sediment raised in the wake of accomplishment and advancement. Its unwritten record includes run-of-the mill jousting with problem prostitutes, die-hard boot-leggers, young and old drunkards, murderers, sundry other felons and frauds, and an assortment of bad neighbors who liked to whomp each other to settle property and family disputes. We even had an in-town neighborhood known by the perpetually derogatory title of "Nigger Hollow," allegedly named after the dark skinned employees who worked in the local tanneries and lived in the small homes on the south side of town .....still known today as "The Hollow." While it is absolute history that this name was used up to and including the 1960's by some folks, it has been avoided by most historians who should know better than to attempt to revise the past because of their own discomfort. What about those folks, the citizens who lived in that Hollow, and had to face that reference daily?
While there are many mentions of town disasters and set-backs faced by the community, there has been considerable sanitizing of history such that one might be shocked to know houses of ill-repute were a fact of life in this little town straddling the 45th parallel of latitude. The loggers knew about them and so did the tannery workers..... and so did the wives apparently, and the local constables did their best to remove them from the business community.....but they kept re-locating based on demand. Now while the purists are curling their lips in anger and outrage, and the hackles are raising, rest assured I know my stuff and I wouldn't offer you even the slightest mistruth to boost readership. But as I have argued with local historians for years, ignoring historical details because they're not particularly complimentary to the image desired of the "old hometown," doesn't make them go away....rather they're left for another day when some ambitious and dogged reporter-historical type decides to dig in an area where no other shovels have been imbedded. What then? Denial? Refusal to acknowledge the less than desirable aspects of historical record? Most towns have a unexplored heritage... stories about a goodly number of criminal types who some say "gave the town a black eye," because of their actions......and don’t warrant any kind of recognition. In my opinion the true dynamic of a history worth wearing, is that it does exhibit worts and blisters.....and that there is no way a hometown or city can truly come to terms with its past without taking into full account all the problems and obstacles overcome. Call it a worthiness to be anyone's home town, that it carries all its history, good or bad, an asset or a burden with the clear resolve....... that it has survived despite adversity and disadvantage, prejudice and bigotry onward to repair and restitution. When you read some of the "good times were had by all" histories from a lot of towns in our country, it's obvious there was an inherent and justifiable fear of bad reputation and its potential to hurt business.
Today however, we've come a long way in being able to consider faults and assets as a patina of community life, like it or not.....of course we haven't always done everything right for all these years. But would any one expect to advance 150 odd years without blemishes, failures, misadventures and catastrophes? Is it possible we can live in a town all these decades and be crime free? And while the truth about a lot of community news was censored and sanitized for a host of reasons, there wasn't a citizen old enough to vote who couldn't find the message between the lines, of any of these stories, or the ones curiously omitted, and know exactly the proportion and weight of editorial control over the public's right to know. It's still done today and we always know there's more to the story than what we're permitted to access. Some of this we accept. Then come the historians who don't particularly care if they step on toes, and what was buried is newly exhumed. Maybe we're shocked. Possibly not! Unfortunately much of this will take a lot longer to chip away because some overseers still believe any deviation away from accepted historical accounting will hurt a community. With honesty? Or the fact it was covered up for so many decades by people over-riding the public's right to know? But I had so much to learn. So much sensitivity to develop. So here I was a hometown kid, a keener historian looking to cut his teeth on some good local stuff, and an apprentice editor of the local press........that I may or may not have believed contributed to telling stories rounded at the edges. Boy was I in for discovery by immersion. I couldn't have been more advantaged, truth be known!
So here is a wee contradiction of sorts that I discovered from a self-imposed deep immersion......the wish to find out more about my hometown because at last I had a vested interest, the need to relate stories, and a desire to do so with accuracy to earn readers’ respect. I didn't understand any of this when I began as a newspaper editor back in the late 1970's, and on through the 1980's. I took over the task of editorship at a time when I was working feverishly as an historian, driven to find the truth and set it free.....to hell with the consequences. So what I am about to relate in a series of blogs is as much my own confessional......what I discovered about my community and what made me understand some of the protectionism, some of the reluctance to be entirely forthright because of anticipated dangers and consequences to largely unsuspecting families, who didn’t know quite everything about the activities of their ancestors. I suppose that makes me a part of a conspiracy to cover-up history. Thus the contradiction. Yes, there were many discoveries made pawing through local archives, news clippings, and documents, that would have startled the bejesus out of those who fear these kind of undertow revelations. I never turned away from even one of these accidental but important discoveries. And each one did influence my approach and my understanding of local heritage to this day. Serendipity is the way we historians advance our story-lines. One discovery leading to three other leads.
These blogs in preparation, will be sincere recollections about events, folks I knew, activities I got up to, and things I saw that were never, never meant for the public eye. Yet when they are all complete, and I feel that Bracebridge has been adequately overviewed and recalled from my own experiences, I think you'll find on the other side, a very real, honest and cherished portrayal of "Our Town,".......an amalgamation of so many characters, so many ambitions, happiness, sorrow, optimism, realism, content and discontent, all adding to the hue of patina I see when I cross the Silver Bridge on a misty spring morning, and look with affection upon the same main street as once, bustling as it always has, one full and busy day to the next. But there are no denying the ghosts of the past. I think immediately of the soldiers of the 122nd Muskoka Battalion marching down this street in preparation for overseas deployment in the First World War. The funeral processions that wound through these same streets with the victims of the great influenza outbreak after the war, and the day witnesses watched on this same street as an iron lung passed up Manitoba Street.....sending a ripple of mounting fear throughout the citizenry that there was a polio outbreak in Bracebridge. The parades. So many Santa Claus parades marched along this same corridor to the thunderous cheers of young and old. And it was the street my mother Merle used to love strolling, in modern history, taking my wee sons for their daily walk, to get their treat at the five to a dime store while I tended shop up the street. It was the mainstreet I used to hang around on Saturday mornings because it was an interesting place to people-watch.
As an apprentice historian/ editor, my mentor newspaper giant, Robert J. Boyer, led me to the downstairs archives in the former Herald-Gazette building, on Bracebridge's Dominion Street, where thousands of old newspapers were bound and stacked.....and he said.....while chomping down on his gnarled old cigar....."If you're interested in history....this should keep you busy for a few years."
In all my years working in his company Bob never once discouraged me from seeking out the facts of local history, or discussing something I wasn't sure about, or didn't quite appreciate the inherent sensitivity. While I was ruthless to begin with, and wanted to expose everything there was to exploit, Bob allowed me in on a few realities about what is known, what is truthful, and what is responsible representation and presentation of history. What he taught me was to learn and learn more, and never stop looking for the hinge to all else, while at the same time using that knowledge as a base of power;.... not just as a source for senseless and selfish exploitation. While I had been tutored by many well versed and accomplished historians during my university years in Toronto, Bob was by far the mentor who forced me to qualify and justify my facts like no other, and sculpt responsible opinions that could be steadfastly defended. I think Bob decided to make me a project and I'm glad he did. While we didn't always see eye to eye on all editorial conundrums, we generally found the way to compromise such that we both left a debate feeling respectfully successful. His was the wisdom garnered from decades of involvement in a newspaper industry, totally imbedded in all aspects of the community. Mine was the enthusiasm to consume as much of that knowledge as Bob was willing to lend, because I needed those critical insights and advisories to do my job properly. We did clash on occasion when I brought too much aggression and recklessness to the job;..... reflective of that cumbersome over-confidence of youth and inexperience. Yet he was the one gentleman I eagerly listened to because he was always honest and fair, and willing to infill what I was missing about the protocols of responsible journalism, and vulnerabilities of small town life and times. Bob never told me how to write or what to write about but he wasn’t shy pointing out important counterpoints....this from a man who had lived the history he wrote about. His sage advisories could never have been misconstrued as meddling or any attempt to censor what was clear fact. I only wish I'd told him of my sincere appreciation for his tutoring before we moved on with our lives and projects.
The recollections are all based in one way or another on the platform of history....rigorously exposed but not exploited to gain a readership. It was my resolve to know as much about local history as possible....all the details, all the suspicions investigated, all the muck kicked around and stepped through;.... not simply on the impetus and self-serving interests of a good story for a pay cheque but to genuinely possess a dimensional, all-sides considered foundation of undisputed knowledge. A base from which to build responsibly, with precision, as an historian devoted to public education. I'd rather know than not know.....and I've never censored out fact because it was an inconvenient truth. So the foundation of each story is solidly anchored on a wide and deep knowledge of all the events and milestones in my old hometown......but don't expect scandalous revelations for the sake of an audience. It doesn't mean I haven't been influenced by their occurrence at some point;....... just as I've been affected by so many other incredibly uplifting and inspirational events, and characters, I've been happily associated with over the decades. Hope you enjoy the small offering of hometown life as I knew it growing up in Bracebridge, Ontario, Canada, and as a former editor of Bracebridge's revered publication, The Herald-Gazette.
So what comes immediately to mind when I think back to those first years living up in the Weber apartments, up on Alice Street? Well, the cutting, rattling, invasive but always welcome train horn! Many times a day. The clickety-clack of trains pounding along the silver rails at 40 below and the unsettling, almost eerie stab of horn through the January night. I never really understood why we could hear it so clearly being situated quite a distance beyond and above the river-basin train station, just below the town's main street. I remember the wicked wind we had to endure crossing the Hunt's Hill bridge and the promises made to God to let us cross over without dieing.....in return for Christian behavior at home and school. When one of our mates fell for the allure of frosted-over ironworks, placing his tongue on the railing, what the hell else were we supposed to do but kick his arse and drop his pants?
I got beat up by local thugs, a family of miserable bastards and equally nasty cohorts, for stepping between the villains and my friend......who when freed ran home, leaving me to get whomped.... but good.... for my intrusive good nature. For this act of open defiance I was granted about two weeks of punch-outs, which damaged my jaw for life, and when school administration failed to act.....I pulled a "Shane" out of my hat, and hoofed the head thug in the nuts, rapping knuckles of both hands into the squishy, miserable faces of my pursuers. And bloody hell, I got hauled into the principal's office for fighting in the school yard. By golly, I took them with me and that felt real good. So I know what you're thinking.....this good fella is the same one who dropped a poor lad's pants, who had his tongue stuck to the railing of the bridge over the coldest river in the world. A balance of justice I suppose.
I loved school and enjoyed football games with Father Heffernan who used to organize lunch and recess matches on the sideyard of Bracebridge Public School.....our very own Father O'Malley (Bing Crosby - Going My Way and Bells of St. Mary’s). I loved to play road hockey up on Alice Street and over on Liddard and Aubrey Streets with school mates, and we played a thousand games of baseball and shinny on Frank and Ivy Henry's property behind the Hospital; and of course we biked a trillion miles around this district to swim and chase adventure.
I traversed the snowbound ribbon rails on winter nights, after walking my girlfriend Linda home, and I must have skated a thousand miles at the Bracebridge arena, holding her hand and dreaming of a future together. I sat on the bank at Bass Rock, our swimming hole on the Muskoka River, watching the hippies smoke dope, and nearly drowned in the bay when I tried to swim across with a friend....while holding my clothes in one hand above. I scraped my arse clean of skin when our soap box racer lost its wheels on Flynn's hill on Richard Street, and I got stomach aches that would pop your eyes, eating the little green apples we swiped off the trees that lined the neighborhood.
I can get sentimental to tears thinking back to Bamford's Corner Store and Black's Variety on Toronto Street, where I spent tens of thousands of cents buying black balls and pop, comics and Lucky Elephant Popcorn, and where most of my childhood was imprinted....the bum imprints we all left on the wooden stoop of Lil and Cec's (when Black's store was sold) on so many lengthy philsophical sojourns long into summer nights, when it was a meeting-spot for hot-rodders and neighborhood tough-guys. We loved them all because they were too cool to take their pop bottles back for the refund....and gladly dumped on us kids. I didn't have even one tiny image-issue cashing in someone else's pop bottle.
I played baseball at Jubilee Park, on the hottest summer afternoon's in history. Got stuck in left field but hit a few dingers in my day. Played a lot of hockey up at the James Street arena, and as a goaltender, never got equipment that actually protected my body parts......until that era's arena manager Tom Robinson helped me order my own equipment from a sporting goods catalogue they sent to his office. Got a decent reputation as an up and coming goalie until I tried out for the Junior C Bears and took one too many slapshots to the groin.....and when coach Danny Poland asked whether or not I was puck shy.....all I could do was nod 'cause I sure as hell couldn't speak due to the lower body pain.
I loved the Alice Street apartment where we lived because it was like a commune. Nobody shut their doors unless it was time to go to bed and it was a great sub-community in a kindly working-class neighborhood where everybody cared.......and one person's kid belonged to the street which was both good and bad depending on what kind of kid you happened to be! Residents on the street didn't show any reserve at all about phoning my mother to let her know of my latest, greatest exploit....which may have been the unlawful removal of ripe tomatoes from Gord Black's beautiful garden, or the swiping of a cooling pie from a window ledge that looked as if it had been made for me. I sort of remember removing the wheels from Seth Hillman's lawnmower so Al, Rick and I could get wheels for our hot rod.
I loved my mates and I never would have imagined a time or circumstance that would have pulled us apart. I could not have fathomed any circumstances except death to divide us.....when they would move away or marry outside the circle of friends we had been for decades. It was my own Peter Pan passion for the good times of childhood we all enjoyed growing up in Bracebridge, despite the knocks, bruises and misadventures. No, I didn't want to grow up. I didn't want to move away from Alice Street. And it's true that one day I would like to move back for the sake of so many ghosts with no one to organize them into a road hockey playoff. I didn't know anything about politics and I had no interest in social standing, and couldn't have cared-less about having any more money than it cost for a cold pop, a bag of chips to share with my mates, and maybe a small sack of black balls to get me through to the next dinner-time. I was naive, just as I am today, about preserving these precious memories......protecting the truths, the intimate details of what it truly meant belonging to a "hometown"......particularly what it meant to a transplanted city kid. Here are some of my fondest recollections of my early days in Bracebridge. They are all retold with the reverence I have for social history and hopefully provide a different perspective to other penned histories.....some I can relate to, others I can not.....many that I find flawless, others I find pretentious, pompous and misguided. They are honest and heartfelt attempts to tell it the way it was.....without any intent to alter, embellish or redefine history as it has all played out.
I’ve led an historian’s life. I live in a house jammed with histories of the world, work of great writers and profound philosophies penned by the most noted visionaries. I am comfortable with history. Glad I remained faithful to my profession despite setbacks....some anticipated, others quite unexpected yet understood. Sometimes I’ve had regrets. I’ve been shunned for what I know and the opinions I have expressed in the past. I’ve suffered retribution and it has at times been a lonely pre-occupation. Yet I cling to the belief that when I’m judged finally on the merit of content and responsible handling of history, I think what I have brought forth will be deemed balanced, honest and insightful to all who have a sincere interest in the promotion of heritage generally. As for pleasing all......I shall not lose any sleep if my adversaries continue to sharpen their claws for retaliation. I’m always prepared for a good and lengthy debate. Thank you for taking the time to read this introductory blog.....and please join me for more histories to come.
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