The Patina of Home - The Amalgamation of Emotions and Fact
I like to retrace my youth spent in Bracebridge step by step. Literally. Physically. The art of the hike. The mindful jaunt in places familiar. I've taken many long strolls through my former neighborhoods, over the four seasons, just to see if by slim but hopeful chance, there's a ghost or two still wandering about from that era of the 1960's and 70's, when the town was on the cusp of what I feel has become a profound urbanizing change. I don't see them but I can feel their presence and it's not a bad or frightening thing to be in their company. I also write a ghost blog so the more the merrier!
There was a lot of history that wasn't recorded. It's not really the fault of historians past but the fact that most history of small towns in Ontario, for example, was tallied by newspaper reporters/editors, who purposely distanced fact from the "emotional facts......actuality of the event that took place." The borrowed news reports re-published in modern histories do not evoke much in the way of sentiment....because of course they were meant for the news pages where there is a strict format and protocol for presentation; a budget of words and a reduction of sentiment for sentiment's sake. It does however, leave a void of understanding. What was it like to watch a fallen soldier's body return home to the Bracebridge train station in a rough box......what was it like to stand on that platform with family who had some time earlier waved at their son as he headed out in defence of his country? Let the reader fill in the blanks. On re-write however, for the reader today, the old news reports have a corpse-like dryness about them, because they are hollow for the most part, of actuality.....like when the news commentator in the United States stated, in utter shock and horror.... "Oh, the humanity," when the great Zepellin caught fire and passengers dove, in flames, to their deaths. Events and personal tragedies that may have made the front pages of the weekly press, and into the hearts and souls of neighborhood folks then, are jammed into historical accounts now without accompanying explanation of what it all meant in human terms....not just in some writer's appreciation of the bare facts. Today these twists of fate are pretty much neglected unless conversation between hometowners enters that domain.
Events such as the death of two of my chums in a tunnel cave-in on Anne Street, just up the hill from the train tracks near Bass Rock, come to mind. No matter how many times it may re-appear in sundry mention in a feature article or book, unless there's some infilling, it becomes a news story only.....when in fact it was a community-shaping tragedy that affected the way we perceived our hometown fragility and our ability to save our children from a similar fate. When it was learned the boys had been trapped in the tunnel, neighbors and folks from all over, appeared on site with shovels, showing on their faces the very great fear of the unknown......that there may have been many others in that smothering hole in the side of the hill. Some who ran to that cave-in suspected their sons might be in there as well. Former Hospital Administrator Frank Henry, on hearing the news while at work, ran from the nearby medical facility with a shovel, he found in the maintenance department, to help dig the lads free. It was a Saturday and parents were frantic to connect with their youngsters situated at play all over town. My father phoned my mother Merle from the lumber yard where he worked, to find out if I was at home. I was. But I might not have been if not for a warning that came down the pike the night before, when several young lads asked their parents about helping our mates from school dig their army tunnel network the next day. When I announced my intention to trundle over to the same hillside, my mother stood in the doorway and said, "You're not going to be digging a tunnel today or ever.....and I don't care what you're friends think is a good idea....it's not....you can die if there's a cave-in." That was the statement made the night before. It's the reason I'm penning these thoughts now....because of any project I do get involved, I'm usually in the middle of everything going, including a tunnel dig. Just as I would have been on that rainy autumn day. I thought she might have changed her mind, or that possibly I could sneak past the sentry and wander over to Anne Street without my mother being any the wiser. By morning it was raining heavy and throughout most of the day it was a misty, cold ugliness. As it turned out, this was at least part of the problem that helped loosen a large portion of hillside, sliding down on top of the boys.
I will never forget the sombre mood of that town for weeks after. Students jammed the funeral home rooms to bid farewell to their chums and for many of us it was the first serious introduction to mortality. It happened on numerous other occasions, where accidents and general misadventures led to the death of friends......hockey playing mates, baseball colleagues, kids from the neighborhood who drowned or were involved in traffic mishaps. Sickness claimed quite a few others and most of us admittedly didn't understand why the young and resiliant were succumbing. For every community milestone, every accomplishment from a provincial sports honor to celebration of the Cavalcade of Color, there was no escaping the reality there was a patina of town life that was a precarious mix of good and bad, happiness and misery, new life being born to the citizenry and others taken away.....sometimes suddenly.
I can remember hearing about a traffic accident, as a kid, that happened on old Highway II at the intersection near The Pines Home for the Aged......a grisly tale that has stuck with me to this day because of what rescuers had to deal with at the scene. The word went around that summer afternoon that a head-on collision near the intersection had resulted in many serious injuries to mulitiple occupants of both vehicles. There were sirens coming from all over. We knew it was bad just by the responding vehicles..... , fire, ambulance and the police. From where we lived on Alice Street, much of the action passed down nearby Toronto Street on the way to the hospital. When the fire department arrived they knew at least one of the vehicles was going to require ripping apart to free the occupants. Before they could finish extracation of the injured, flames broke out in the wreckage, and in seconds what was left of the car was engulfed in flames. They had no chance to do anything for those people inside, who began screaming in pain from the encroaching fire. It was told to us kids, sitting at the time with adults at our apartment on Alice Street, that the firemen felt like screaming along with the victims, because their agony was as great....having to live with the fact they were forced to watch people die knowing their rescue efforts could not be successfully mounted in time. I could not, would not ever forget those words, and it was as if I had been a witness myself....it became that real for me. I knew some of the firemen. What a terrible experience for them to live with for the balance of their lives.....and they had seen many more gruesome situations; yet I am reminded that they had experienced thousands of other calls when they were able to make successful rescues and save lives.....save buildings from burning and ward of total catastrophe by their expert efforts. It was that bitter sweet patina of everyday life.
There were many times in my childhood, in Bracebridge, when like everyone else who appreciates the dynamic of life, when shock and sadness entered into one's heart and soul, and affected the interpretation of everything else for weeks and months. It was a community like all the rest. There were serious accounts of misadventures we listened intently to at dinner-time; reports, hearsay, gossip of unfortunate family circumstances, tales of business failures, marriage break-ups, a few affairs of the heart, crime, assaults and some less serious news about school mates (some from prominent families) caught for shoplifting or public drunkeness. As I got a little older there were numerous stories about those same chums getting caught with drugs and related items, smoking down at Bass Rock where we used to swim..... and where we'd get a real kick talking to hippies and draft dodgers, Americans trying to avoid the horrors of the Vietnam War by hinding out in the hinterland of Ontario.
The Hunt's Hill lads used to hang-out near the railway station on hot sumer afternoons, awaiting the coveted Toronto run, pondering whether this would be the day to jump a boxcar and head to the city for some fun. They came and went over those many years and we never jumped on rolling stock. We did however, get on boxcars in the rail yard and we met up with more than a few hobos heading down to the Jungle they kept in rotating locations just up the overgrown embankment from the Muskoka River.....where yes they did occasionally enjoy an invigorating bath in the moonlight.
If you sat by the rails for long enough you were sure to see some interesting stuff going on at the adjacent Albion Hotel that I think had a better history earlier in the century than it was gaining in the 1960's, by way of the patrons it kept. It wasn't uncommon at all to see a bouncer run a drunk patron's head into the door on the way out onto the tarmac.....which obviously spoke volumes about the misconduct inside. The guy would crawl around for a few moments, dust himself off, comb his hair, and shadow-box a little while giving a lecture to the bouncer, then long gone, about "just who do you think you are buddy, throwing me out like that......I'll show you a thing or two." Five minutes of composure-gathering later, he'd try to get back in that bar again......and we loved every moment of it. Sure as we bet, he'd coming flying out a little further the second time with the bouncer's arm on his shoulder and wasteband of the pants, and down he'd go in a lump of humanity. I've watched as many as three patrons bounced the same way minutes apart. It may not be the part of history that is seen worthy of ink these days (or even then) but by golly it happened, it was funny as hell, and I witnessed this social, cultural heritage close enough to smell the booze and hear their heads hitting the door on the way out.
Public drunkeness wasn't a rarity even in the earliest days of our community. We had a lot of logging types in this town before the turn of the century, as did Gravenhurst, and it imprinted pretty harshly on the local constables. The loggers coming from the camps were a force to be reckoned with, and being rowdy was just part of the rugged lifestyle garnered from an industry known for its dangers, demands for the utmost courage, and reckless abandon. Being trapped for long periods in the camp made the escape so much more desirable, and misadventure was normal course....and the lock-up showed the wear and tear on its hinges. As well, homesteaders here had no choice but to be a tough, unyielding, stubborn lot because failure here could mean a slow agonizing death due to starvation out on the homestead. Even if you lived in town you were unmistakably a pioneer in the north woods regardless of urban situation. To say we were hewn from a rough and tumble first citizenry, well, you'd be right. From the late 1850's Muskokans who wanted to remain here made sacrifices. There were disadvantages on top of disadvantages and many didn't make the cut....left the region for some other locale, or perished with dreams of a prosperous homestead still in their hearts. Some of my wife's family, during this pioneer period, were known as the Three Mile Lake Wolves, for their temperment, and with Irish glee they would join arms at one end of the main street, stretch across the width of the rough lane, and with as many as four hardy brawlers, beckon anyone tough enough to stand in their way as they marched toward the town falls. Legend? Nope! Fact!
In the following blogs, some that were formerly published in Curious; The Tourist Guide, I have provided an honest appraisal of what it meant to me, to be considered a local yocal......how it felt after many years of being transplanted from the city, and attached to this new hometown. As I had been a keen observer throughout my childhood, of what constituted the tally of daily life and times of any worthy hometown.....I didn't proceed as a writer/historian with any misconception or lack of appreciation for what history had etched in its wake......like the glacier grinding over the Canadian Shield. What I had seen and experienced......it was a critical background reference that gave me an exceptional insight. As a fledgling editor, having arrived back to my hometown, hoping to make a name for myself as an adult citizen, I knew in advance of my first published piece that it was going to be a precarious balance to represent fairly all the trials, tribulations, joys and sorrows, losses and victories.....and avoid at all cost, making it ever seem as if the local citizenry couldn't cope with any situation it was to face. Afterall it had survived the wickedly difficult pioneer economy, two wars, a Great Depression and a myriad of successes in businesses that went bust as did so many dreams. It has worn its discontent bravely and survived despite adversity....just like thousands of other good hometowns that realize that the definition of prosperity means being able to turn misfortune into advantage......picking up where one task was left off and finishing the job.
My own critics argue that I am too open with my opinions, and to glaring with the facts I present. In response I carry on with blatant disregard and contempt.......because I have never as a citizen, a newspaper editor, or historian come upon anything in the past or present, no matter what the weight of its negative revelation, that couldn't be handled by citizens at large and time. And afterall that's what makes a hometown.....well.....a "home", being able to move on despite. We are not immune to the dastardly circumstances......of crime, corruption, and malice....why would we be? It's all part of our history like it or not. As the earth continues to turn, resolution and restitution will occur just as it always has, and we will recover and rejoice all over again......but it is imprudent to forget how we got from there to here in 150 odd years. I'd like to believe we've learned something about our capabilities to survive against what is often considered insurmountable.
Here are some editorial pieces about my hometown I've composed in the past 12 months. You don't have to know much about Bracebridge, or anything at all about its past, to relate to the stories.....which for all intents and purposes could have been generated from your own hamlet, village, town or city. Please enjoy! The first one has a Christmas backdrop!
Respecting the spirits of Christmas past
My contemporaries in the community press sought out the editorship of The Herald-Gazette, in Bracebridge, because it seemed from an underling perspective, like a politically powerful and socially influential position. They had visions of world domination, I think, not simply the fair and unbiased representation of community life and events.
It afforded the chosen-one the very great and time-honored privilege, to occupy the creaking old chair behind the oak desk, the one with a deep patina of sweat and ink imprinted into the grain, attained honestly from the actuality of many milestones of local history. To be editor one had to be cognizant of all things past and present, yet be insightfully inspired, no less courageous, to willingly venture into the abyss of uncertainty down a dark and winding trail. Well, that’s a tad dramatic!
How many of those long adrenalin, emotion driven editorial races to deadline, were pounded into that oak desktop? Fist thumps onto its surface. "Let’s put this paper to bed!"
It was situated in the second biggest office in the century old building on Dominion Street, and it afforded the occupier thusly, the right to select or compose the lead editorials for the weekly edition. Not to mention having the responsibility to bark out orders to reporters and lay-out staff, about what was going to make the front page, and what copy would fill up the white space further back amongst the food store ads.
I wasn’t the youngest editor of The Herald-Gazette but possibly the youngest non-family member to take the helm of this established publication. It wasn’t the only paper serving the community, and in fact, when I was appointed to the editorship in the early 198 0’s, there was a fierce battle being waged between competing publishers to win over advertisers and attain the highest weekly readership.
I had apprenticed with a sister publication, The Beacon, in the Township of Georgian Bay, and felt a little out of my league when the publisher first offered me the editor’s job, in Bracebridge, when the former head honcho was transferred to another community newspaper. While scared out of my wits to take the helm of one of the District of Muskoka’s best known publications, I had achieved exactly what I had intended after returning home from studies at York University in Toronto. I wanted to be an editor with Muskoka Publications. It simply came about five years sooner than I had planned.
I didn’t care about the political weight of editorship and I had no intention of changing one molecule of the tradition established by George Boyer and family, who had built the newspaper’s foundation brick by brick decades before I’d even seen the first light of new life.
I used to work many late nights hunched over that gouged, pen-imprinted, gnarled old desktop during the first year of my multi-year tenure, feeling a huge sense of pride being able to maintain the HG’s print tradition, carrying on a legacy of fine writers, and powerful editorialists. I felt in awe to be truly ingrained then in the history of my community. At times I still felt like a punk kid running amuck in the neighborhood, like my rapscallion days growing up on Bracebridge’s east side as part of the Hunts Hill gang, a notoriously pacifist bunch of lads who were distinctly better hockeyists than pugilists. Here I was dictating the editorial content for a much closer, in-person history, and I was astounded by the faith of the publisher, Hugh Mackenzie, who allowed me the greatest of freedom to represent the good and bad of community life and times.
I can so clearly recall one rather poignant news-desk vigil, on a blustery night on the cusp of that year’s Christmas vacation. I had been at the helm about a half year and we’d just finished the special holiday edition of the paper that afternoon, and heartily consumed a few cartons of eggnog in celebration. There may have been a trace of rum stirred in as well. What a keenly wonderful moment it was that night, in the solace of an empty newsroom amidst the splendid haunts of this historic building, to feel that sense of connectedness to all the heritage of this Ontario community. All I had to do was walk two flights of stairs to the basement to connect with the physical archives representing well over a hundred years. The history of Bracebridge was right there in huge and bulky compilations overflowing shelves and tables. I was in awe to stand there and consume the legacy of which I was now a part.
While my staff colleagues had their opinion about my leadership, and my zeal for political power, they might have been quite confounded by the fact I actually was quite humbled by the position. I felt more unworthy than cocky, and there wasn’t a day that went by, when I didn’t think about my shortfalls and inexperience captaining such an important community asset. Yet there were moments, such as that particular pre-Christmas vigil, when I allowed myself the benefit of doubt, and thoroughly enjoyed the sensation of being editor of The Herald-Gazette….despite the misgivings that I was unworthy of the responsibilities bestowed.
When I walked away from the news building that evening, and looked back through the wind-driven snow, it was as if a manufactured, nostalgic old movie scene wrenched from the archives. It needed a sentimental last-word, a line Bogart might have uttered about time and place, event and remembrance, life of old, life anew, the end of one chapter, the beginning of a fresh new perspective. I may have even looked a little like Bogie, at that precise moment, my turned-up coat collar and askew hat adorned with snow, staring back at the history of only moments ago, yet pondering what the future might hold…..Christmas yet to be. And in that illumination of snow against nighfall, there was that sense of peace we dream of when all the world seems to make perfect sense, and we trundle joyfully through the winter night with great expectation. It was as if, at that moment, I was walking the same path as an editor from the 1920’s, or one winter’s eve during the Great Depression, or during the Second World War, our footfall being the same. All the years, all the events, all the memorable moments were imprinted here, and I was only too pleased to embrace it all….that year and for every year since, that I have been contently employed writing about my hometown and home region of Ontario.
In the coming year in Curious, The Tourist Guide, I would like to re-visit those roving reporter, editor’s desk days, and share some light-hearted, unusual, outrightly strange events that occurred during my years working for the local press here in the heart of Muskoka. I will introduce you to many colorful characters who made my many years in the print business so memorable and exciting.