Frank Miller was a needed friend to a weary reporter
The Muskoka news beat-
By Ted Currie
I didn’t bring this point up during the job interview, for the editor’s position of The Herald-Gazette, in Bracebridge, simply because it would have meant my quick, possibly forced expulsion from the publisher’s office. I have some rather blunt and strong opinions about local politics and the pomposity of some municipal councilors, then and now, and I can tell you honestly that on any priority list of stories I ever penned for my reporting staff, chasing after politicians for big scoops was usually no better than one up from the bottom. The folks I was working for lived and breathed politics, and to them, a four alarm fire was significantly below the breaking news of a local government funding announcement, or a ceremonial ground breaking for a new highway over-pass. I remember once asking one of my administrators why we dedicated so much editorial space to pump-up local government......at the expense of many great stories we couldn't get to because we had to chase politicians for grip and grin photographs. "Because it's important news....our readers want to know how our local government is working?" I wanted to say...."Well then, give me a month, two investigative reporters and four full pages for when the story breaks.....and I'll provide readers with the real story.....without so much as one glad handing photograph." I needed the job and the paycheck so I just gnashed my teeth and got on with what they thought was the big deal.
For as long as I was editor, which was a strife-filled, shadowy decade, I locked horns constantly with the management staff, and there was seldom a week that went by without a plethora of stressed facial expressions lining the hall outside my office like a modernist mural, and so many impromptu meetings, to discuss my latest behavior and contrary-to-policy editorial decisions. I was a pain in the arse on principle. My school teachers had complained to my mother for years that "Teddy doesn’t respect authority figures." The coal chute incident comes to mind. The soot on my jacket gave me up! I paid dearly for that indiscretion. The kid wanted to know what it would be like to fly down the chute from the school playground, so I stuffed him down there. Actuality. He had a lot of querries answered on that day. George told me it had been the ride of his life....just a little dirty when he hit bottom. I didn't have a problem with an authority figure who could teach me something.....information and experience I could drink up. My authority figures didn't have too much to offer in the areas I needed......so I just blew them off and got the job done anyway. There were a few exceptions as you will read about, when I did have enormous respects for my peers.
I assumed responsibilities as editor following a short but poignant stint in the field of Canadian history at York University, and as conservation activist in matters of local heritage here in the hinterland of Ontario. Before my mid-twenties I had already helped found the Bracebridge Historical Society, and the creation of a local museum known as Woodchester Villa. I had even worked on behalf of the Muskoka Board of Education to develop an audio archives of interviews with some of the region’s oldest and well known residents. I was then and always a grassroots historian and admittedly I was much more interested in the reminiscences of the local baker, police officer, farmer, trapper, dime store clerk and waitress, than the self promotion of local politicians looking to the press to build up their resumes with good news reporting. There’s always another election coming, you see, thus the need for a file folder of good ink.
I had unfortunately developed a seriously jaded opinion of politicians which began back in the mid 1970’s for reasons unknown. It just seemed to me that the press shamelessly pandered to their self-importance; why did they deserve front page coverage every time they showed up at a community function, cut a ribbon, or participated in the 10,000th or more grip and grin photo opportunities I was forced to cover during my tenure as editor. There was only one man, one politician ever in my 30 years contributing to the local press, who gave me reason to reconsider the notion that politics and vanity are inseparable realities of upward mobility in government.
When I began as a cub reporter working for the Georgian Bay-Muskoka Lakes Beacon, out of a small multi purpose office in the Village of MacTier (south of Parry Sound), it was a huge part of the job to latch on to political representation as if it was the key to finding the holy grail of front page news. I was led to believe that there was a Pulitzer with my name on it, if only I could get a local politician to give me the mother of all news scoops. My constant protests did little to convince the publisher that there was a better way to dig up relevant news, than to report on predictable, routine events. I sat for hours at local council meetings doodling and writing poetry about how awful it was to be stuck in the quagmire of bylaws and minor variances. I would so much rather have been in pursuit of fire and accident calls, major events and calamities, and most of my reporting chums felt the same. "Let me out of here for God’s sake!"
On weekends the publisher had a list of chores for the on-call reporter (me), and nine out of every ten involved something or other with a political, governmental, boring to tears "elected official" overtone. Every time a member of provincial or federal government dropped a pen, I was expected to get the photograph. Each time one of these big shots said something to someone, I was supposed to be on top of it, in case there was any breaking news potential. Gads, I hated having to cling onto their every word or motion and it made for such dreadful, uninteresting, and repetitive reading week after week. I needed the money. I needed the job. The Friday night beer purchase. Thank goodness I found a friend, a mentor, in the most unlikely position, from the one profession I truly despised.
On one occasion at a small diner in MacTier, where I was holed-up between weekend grip and grin photographs in the vicinity, the hand of fate landed on my shoulder. At that precise moment I had found enough change to buy a coffee and a muffin. I was starving to go along with being out of my mind with boredom. I remember standing at the counter sorting out the dimes from the pennies when I felt a hand on my shoulder from behind. I turned to see the furry eyebrows and huge ear to ear smile of Frank Miller, Muskoka’s M.P.P., and a soon to be Premier of Ontario. I’m not sure if he was Treasurer of Ontario at this time but what I can tell you is that he was hugely devoted to the citizens of our riding, whether you were among the party faithful or had never once checked his name on a ballot. Or you happened to be a reporter down on his luck, very much in need of mentoring.
Frank called me over to his table to join him for lunch and asked the lady behind the counter to get me a burger and fries. I was astonished and rather concerned that a lowly reporter-kind should even think of joining a celebrated member of parliament….without pen and pad at the ready just in case there was some sort of scoop for the desperate scribe. I wasn't sure if there was a conflict of interest happening here but considering I was otherwise broke, I was willing to take a chance. Reporters aren't supposed to accept free stuff from the folks they report on....but what the hell. Actually I had photographed Frank presenting a plaque only an hour earlier and I was scheduled to do a ribbon cutting after lunch, so this was a hiatus between gigs for both of us. I think Frank suggested we both drop the professional status of politician and reporter for a hot meal, which we did, and I can’t remember a more enjoyable conversation with any eventual news maker. Frank was like this and any one who had similar dealings knew he was a gentle and kind man, despite being a highly aggressive and determined public official in the ruthless game of Canadian politics.
I was a fledgling writer and he was a seasoned political pro, yet he treated me with the utmost respect, and in fact, from that first lunch meeting, Frank and I by mutual respect, continued to make each others lives out on the hustings, as easy and uncomplicated as possible. He would help me set up photographs if no one from the family or business offered, and he would even go as far as helping me get correct spellings of names and the positions participants stood in the photograph, which always made my press days so much easier. Even when Frank became Premier of Ontario for a short stint, he was the same low key, kindly soul who had invited the nervous, financially embarrassed reporter to dine with him back in the fall of 1979. Our meetings then were a tad more formal because of his entourage of staff but we still got along famously with a lasting mutual respect.
Frank Miller changed my opinion about politicians and government, and chasing him around the Muskoka region for news coverage wasn’t so bad. I can even remember Frank grabbing me a coffee at an anniversary event when nobody else offered. I still have some lingering mistrust for politicians but I can tell you these trepidations are not as sharp as they were when I started in this community press enterprise. It was the influence from Frank Miller that rounded down the rough edges, and made me see, from the other side, what it takes to be a responsive and worthy representative of the people.
Before I had written my first Herald-Gazette editorial, I was able to draw on my experiences with Frank Miller, and while I never admitted it at the time, my enlightenment meant overall that I judged the person first, the political characteristic second.
As a new editor there was a lot to learn and many mistakes yet to make!
The fascinations of childhood and a new editor in town
By Ted Currie
My first error as newly appointed editor of the historic Bracebridge Herald-Gazette, here in South Muskoka, was being so up-tight about protocol and presentation that I forgot about the dynamic of, well,… heart and soul. I was so impressed to have finally made it to the editor’s desk, after a few really tough, scraping, biting seasons out on the news’ hustings, I had become starched to total stiffness. I was humorless, an efficiency freak, and an unflinching task-master. I was Lou Grant sort of, except I was working at a weekly not a daily. Gads, I was a mirror reflection of the administrators I didn't like.
In the early months of the job I admit to feeling rather high and mighty, holed-up in that storied editorial office on Dominion Street, looking out onto the community I was now representing. I was responsible for approving every word of copy hitting that newsstand on the street below. I couldn’t see the grasping, clutching, covetous old sinner of the press I had become with these reigns of power tight in my hands. By the way, I borrowed the description above from Charles Dickens assessment of his famous character, "Scrooge." If Scrooge had been an editor, well, we would have had a lot in common. I was pleased with the image of success I saw in that reflection of pomposity, and it was obvious to one and all that I had been the right choice to fill this important community function. You’re right. I was delusional, and a really big arse to think my reporting staff would relent to "The Really Big Wind," which was their pet name for me at parties I wasn't invited.
About three weeks into the job all the illusions of this being the best job on earth shattered like so many other grandiose expectations, nothing having been based on the cogs of reality. Just fiction! My reporters took me out for a pint and a wee history lesson about the foibles of the last editor, and the consequences of ticking them off. Just as I was finally loosening some humanity and had even mustered a compliment about their news gathering efforts for the week, one of my best writers set his glass firmly down onto the table, glared with ferocious blackness, and asked me bluntly if I recalled the moral story of dear old Napoleon at his Waterloo. Another reporter piped up whether I’d ever seen the particularly famous novelty chamber pot (thunder mug) containing Napoleon’s ceramic bust rising from the bowl. It was created for public amusement, shortly after his removal from military privilege? I did know about that because, at the time, I dabbled as a part time antique dealer. The image, the irony of someone going potty on my head, wasn’t lost in translation I can tell you that much. I had awakened to the wants and needs of my colleagues.
In the days that followed, the starch was thoroughly washed out, and a few of my new reporter mates were impressed by my almost-blooming liberalities. In the middle of scolding a photographer for missing an important shot, well, I’d chortle something about "maybe you could draw a picture instead;" which by the way put a smile on my face if not his. I even joined their after hours "liars club," like the one Toronto columnist Paul Rimstead made famous during his time spent writing in Mexico. He used to hole-up with friends at a local club and talk about the issues most affecting them. Mostly they just lounged and consumed exotic beverages and spun amazing tales. He had one of the highest readership numbers of any columnist in Canada. He wrote honestly about human frailties and excesses. If someone called a reporter a "Rimstead," it was like being named rogue of the year......about the highest honor an underpaid and misunderstood reporter could expect to get working for a weekly.
Rimstead was our hero. He was a hometown boy who made it to the big leagues of authordom. He had spent much of his youth in Bracebridge, skipping school, hustling pool, chasing fire trucks with a "press" sign swinging off the handlebars of his bike, and being the best rapscallion he could be, without of course being the story beneath the headline. The fire department didn’t want Paul, who was a junior stringer for a newspaper in Orillia, at the time, following them on their calls. So they put misinformation on the chalk board as the last truck left the hall. He eventually caught on to their little prank, after several times riding miles out of town only to stare at a pasture and wildflowers blowing in the wind. Maybe it honed his sense of the absurd and yet good humor.
Thanks to some Rimstead life and work lessons, and maybe a few pints hoisted in his honor before closing time, I finally figured out that there was a lot more to this editorship of the local newspaper, than being stuffed behind a desk to answer questions and bark commands. In time I became gentle and kindly, and a few times a little tipsy when the reporters were looking for concessions and space for their editorial projects….and I was open to a bribe. I awoke from being an editor "cut-out" pasted to my desk, to feeling editorially liberated. The readers weren’t quite prepared for all this openness but eventually we found a good working relationship. We started to increase circulation and the ad department thought they had died and gone to heaven. We were getting big ads and as a reward we got a few more coins in our pay packets.
I started to think back to what made me want to live in Bracebridge in the first place, tucked up here in the Ontario hinterland. It was the town I spent my own rapscallion youth. My own history was imprinted here. A lot of scrapes and bruises let me tell you. This is what I was seeing in my new editor’s role. Representation of the good town that grew here, a title by the way of a well known history written by my mentor historian, and former Herald-Gazette Editor, Robert Boyer. The Boyer family built this publication up over the decades and it was very much a place on Dominion Street, where folks felt comfortable coming in to talk to the editor and staff. That’s the kind of editor I needed to become. The new protocol was to reflect the community not my hot-shot self. There were lives and events to capture for posterity and some good friends to make along the way.
I loved being at the helm of the paper but not for the reasons some of my peers and adversaries believed. The fact I seemed to be having too much fun when I should have been burdened and ulcer-bound, obviously pointed out my carefree directorship. In fact it was my ceremonious release from my fetters that allowed me to enjoy the job, such that every morning I looked forward to my short walk along Manitoba Street and then Dominion, to the unmistakable white Herald-Gazette building….the one with the raised black iron letters elegantly fashioned above the front door. I admit to sometimes feeling as if I was a character in an elaborate production of the stage play, "Our Town." I pinched myself a lot in those days because for the most part it was too good to be true.
It was from the editor's desk that I also found a darker side to a lot of stories.....while the surface glistened, the stuff beneath wasn't quite as dazzling. And over the years I had many folks remind me that I should stay away from some stories for the good of my health. Threats generally didn't put me off a story but when one sinister warning came directly to my home, with a pregnant wife on the receiving end, I confess my ambition to get scoops diminished somewhat......I wasn't getting paid enough to put up with the risk. I've always had a "Shane-like" retaliatory attitude and have never missed an opportunity to stand up to a bully, in this case death threats were above and beyond the few numbers in my weekly pay check. I loved the work but the longer I stayed on the job the more enemies I made apparently. As an historian today I make a predictable amount of low-key enemies each year but I can live with this.......the most I get from these folks is a clear "shunning," which isn't all that painful considering I shun them first.
More to come from my hometown.