MERRY CHRISTMAS TO MY FRIENDS

It has been both an inspiring and difficult year, as life makes no apology, and yet it has been a curious and strange adventure down so many previously unexplored avenues. The death of my father Ed just over a year ago, an illness that worsened over the Christmas period, made it a particularly difficult time for everyone.......and it was impossible to put business on a back burner regardless of the situation. With recessionary times, our boys, who run a music business in Gravenhurst, could ill afford much time off because of commitments and necessity.....all by the way known by their grandfather, who although gravely ill, told them to stick with their workplace, and that he’d be okay. Well, he wasn’t okay but we knew what he meant.

Ed had lived into his eighties and having enjoyed a rigorous life, having been a member of the famed North Atlantic Squadron, in the Second World War, he was ready to meet up with his wife Merle, who had passed several years earlier. Settling the estate was a much shorter process than it had been for my wife’s father Norman, of Windermere, (Lake Rosseau), who had been a wooden boat restorer for most of his life, and had a massive collection of tools and cottage relics to deal with for most of a year. Ed and Merle kept a modest household, so settling it was fairly simple. It doesn’t mean we didn’t have tearful moments but our recovery began much sooner, as we were able to deal with the new reality while sitting comfortably at home. With Norman’s estate we were working non-stop until every last piece was allocated, and in that case, auctioned off, as had been his request.

But still we arrive at this point, having had a pretty balanced year with many triumphs mixed into the other less contenting events. We are looking forward to a passive, comfortable Christmas season, which will follow an event we, as a family, are promoting at the Gravenhurst Opera House, on December 18th, as a musical variety show to fundraise for the Salvation Army Food Bank, presently in great need of donations. It takes months for our boys, Andrew and Robert to organize, with their many talented musician friends, but it stretches into the family, as my wife and I become event roadies. After this project we are exhausted but pleased to be able to turn over a nice donation to kind people.....who are helping the less fortunate amongst us, twelve months each year.

Our family wishes to extend a hearty Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, to all who occasionally or inadvertently join this blog. It means a lot to us, to have such good friends.

Bless you all.

CHRISTMAS SEASON THE WAY IT SHOULD BE

I used to count myself amongst the Christmas season-weary, getting to the eve of December 24th feeling as if life had been almost fully extracted from my body. If it hadn’t been for a strong soul, I might have succumbed. Christmas Day was always difficult because it demanded social protocols and good neighborliness, at a time when all I wanted to do was nod-off at hearthside, with the crackling cedar logs lulling me to a numbing salvation from the present rigors of unspecified, often reckless festivities.

We are very much different as a family these days, and there is a lot of business going on right up to the final moments of Christmas Eve. But we are kinder to one another, and insist on creature comforts at the end of the day, versus a pile of presents burdening the air space below the tree limbs. With our boys long past the Christmas buzz, associated with the belief in magical chimney entrances, and naughty-or-nice lists being kept by any one but us, the season has become as quiet and gentle as I have long desired. The hustle and bustle of business, as a norm these days, is quite different than four folks running amuck looking for Christmas presents that will amaze the recipient. We reward ourselves now with good food and beverage, and the comfort of being together to celebrate the good cheer of the rolling year.

It’s why I spend so much time looking out this window here at Birch Hollow, watching out over The Bog, as it fills-in with snow, and looks so beautiful in the bright sunlight. I realize how much time I’ve wasted pursuing those straight furrows that David Grayson recognized as all-consuming, in his book “Adventures in Contentment.” He realized, one day, after having taken so much pride in these perfect rows, that he had at the same time, ignored the precious realities of each day, and the grand countryside he had traded for his former city life. He had, you see, escaped the city stresses, for the passive embrace of the country, yet he hadn’t lost his urban habits. He seldom looked up to see his wonderland unfolding, pasture upon pasture, hillside against hillside.....that blue sky that touches universality!

I spent most of my life like David Grayson because I thought it was the way one had to proceed in order to be successful.

I haven’t create a straight furrow in the last decade, and I’m pleased to say it has allowed me so much more time for appreciation of all that dwells contented in the realm of imperfection.

DON’T WISH AWAY TIME - LOOK OUT AT THIS VISTA AND MARVEL........

IT’S A CANADIAN WINTER AND LOOKING A LOT LIKE CHRISTMAS

When my father suffered a stroke last December, passing away in mid-January of complications, I don’t know what I would have done without the ease and solitude of this forest sanctuary across from Birch Hollow. Day or night, by sun or moonlight, deeply covered in snow or lightly dusted, being on this winding, albeit short path, was both tranquil and inspirational. Even on the coldest night, I could hear the tiny cataracts frothing at a myriad of locations across this frozen bogland. It was to me, the reality that life goes on, as the flow of water from the earth to the basins, and onto the lakes and oceans of the world. There is no stopping change in life, and it was over the course of three months or so that the mourning ceased, and trust in the cycle of existence carried on......just as the seasons and this trickle of water beneath the thin crystal of ice that has formed over-night.

I can sit at a keyboard for hours on end, pounding out copy for one project or another, and feel confident at the conclusion that my head will explode at any moment. It’s at this point, the oldtimer “me” leashes our dog Bosko, for a trip into these light and shadow-contrasted, snowy, restorative December woods. Each month has a different patina, just as the seasons, but not as profoundly imprinted. The changes are more subtle and possibly literary because it’s what this writer notices moreso, than say the other twenty or thirty folks who tramp down this path each day for an outing. There’s a Christmas glow about the landscape now, a peace and solitude that I know is implanted by the voyeur. It wasn’t appointed this way by nature to appease the Martha Stewarts out there, looking for a beautiful, sentimental scene. None the less, there is a poetic reality here, and one must be forgiven for being reminiscent and thoughtful about Christmases past. It’s quite natural to feel this way if you adore this celebrated season of peace and good will.

I must soon trundle back home for the good graces of a fire in the hearth. But this respite has served me well again, and I have so much more to write about.

AN INSPIRING VANTAGE POINT AT CHRISTMAS TIME

Today the wind howls over the landscape, wheezing through the evergreens around The Hollow, and huge clouds of snow have been exploded from the heavily burdened, overhanging boughs. The wind-driven snow is hurtful to the exposed face, and to stand out in the open here at The Bog, invites frostbite to the extremities of nose and brow. Yet when I’m able to find a sheltered spot, between evergreens on the embankment, like looking through a window, all seems relatively scenic and non-threatening. When the wind changes however, the sting of ice and air makes one cower a wee bit beneath cloak and scarf.

Throughout the Christmas season I escape here, down this narrow, awkwardly tramped path, like Robert Frost’s famous poem, about stopping by the woods on a snowy evening, and finding solace in the heart of nature. From childhood I have been stopping in Robert Frost’s poetic forest. It was the poem that saved me at school. It was printed in our textbook with accompanying art work, and when I wasn’t looking longingly out the window, and planning my escape, I was finding items that made me feel the outside sensation of life.....despite being trapped by lecture and chalk-board protocol. It’s how I came to adore art-work by the Canadian Group of Seven artists, and why I found verses from the great bards so liberating. I still think of Robert Frost every time I visit this place in the winter months. I think he would have found something more to write about, if like my own solitary vigil, he stood here in this pleasant, protective alcove of pine and cedar to watch this manifestation of snow and wind.

As a young writer I used to disappear into the winterscape frequently by ski and snowshoe, and it was the source of inspiration garnered for so many short stories and feature projects for the local press. I adored solitude, as I do now.

During the Christmas season, when the pace of the days gets a little hectic, my wife always knows where to find me.....with dog Bosko, celebrating the season in my own quiet way. Looking out onto this beautiful place right now, it isn’t hard to be filled with the merriment for the season, and a passion for experience. Merry Christmas.

DECEMBER’S REMINDER TO THE WRITER TO BE THANKFUL, NOT GREEDY

In my halcyon days of authordom, I could spend the better part of a day working at my craft......then, stretch, contemplate something or other.... do push-ups, run five kilometres, drink a half pint of Scotch and then relax beneath the haloof my pipe smoke. If I tried even half that today, I’d be hunched over and in great pain for the next two weeks or more. While it’s not entirely an occupationally inspired condition, as I can blame an active sporting life for many other bodily injuries, over the decades, my posture at the keyboard has been a serious strain on neck and back that’s for sure. If I’d followed the advice of my typing teachers, and paid more attention to good posture, maybe, just maybe I could still work at the keyboard for a couple of hours, and not feel the need for physiotherapy.

The problem with writing as it applies to this scribe, in particular, is that I have always been a passionate writer. How so? My wife has long reminded me how my feelings for a writing project can be determined by looking at, for example, my rough work. When I first started complaining about neck and wrist problems, she said, “Come here; I want to show you something.” She showed me the writing pad I had been working on just that afternoon. Just as a sidebar note, I started writing my copy again after I had killed some of the best typewriters ever made, and found it almost impossible to get replacement ribbons. At that point I had already killed two word processors in one year. NO idea why? I just did! So I took up handwriting again to submit my editorial copy, and imprinted with a pen what I had done with typewriter keys since I began writing in the mid 1970's.

Looking over Suzanne’s shoulder, down onto the notepad, she was pointing to the imprint my pen was making on the other pages below the one I had been working on. “So?” I answered. “What does that prove?” “Well,” she said, flipping through the other pages below, “Look at how far your pen has imprinted down into the pad.” Sure enough, I had gone through about five pages where you could actually read the imprints when held to the light. “You’re pressing down so hard you’re gouging into the paper below,” she pointed out, even faintly to the sixth and seventh blank pages. I couldn’t believe it. “And that’s not all,” she said, pushing the pad across the table. “Look at this?” “Suzanne was pointing at the table top. There it was. My writing imprints onto the wood of the table-top. It didn’t happen that day, and had obviously occurred on an occasion when I only had a few pieces of paper below the one I was working on.....but the evidence was clear that I had been writing, and pressing down so hard that I left a deeply ingrained word trail. I was stunned to see this evidence. No wonder my arms and shoulders hurt for hours after a writing jag.

When I began writing on a typewriter, even the portable I had for university, it required a heavy touch.....and I always adjusted the lever on the side to allow for this......because I liked the feel of resistance, I suppose, when making a point. In the newsroom of the old Herald-Gazette, in Bracebridge, we had massive old Underwoods and when those things sang.....they sang beautifully, and when there was a full newsroom of reporters working to deadline, it was as if I was sitting in the office of the Toronto Star, The Globe and Mail or the New York Times. And we all knew the cadence, and what our contribution was to the daily din. As we were passionate about our work and loved to write generally, our enthusiasm for our craft did indeed transfer from emotion to physical typing. To this day if I’m particularly moved by a topic, or angry about some local news item, my family will often note “Dad’s working up an editorial again!” My editorials have always been a tad more aggressive than general column work.

The point is, I suppose, I’ve been physically harming myself for decades, doing the work I adore. When Suzanne suggests to me that a computer keyboard doesn’t require the imprint of hammer to anvil, I chortle to myself, because after all these years, I just can’t turn it off no matter how aware I am of the over-zealous method of composition. My son even recorded me once from several rooms away, so I could hear the thwacking of innocent keys myself......seeing as up close and personal, I couldn’t hear my own abuses. Fact is, when I truly think about it, I have always known my typing was as aggressive as my writing.....I don’t have many vices other than this......I don’t smoke, don’t drink any more, and I’ve given up hockey goalkeeping. So I feel that this audible pounding of the keys is a true-to-life characteristic of the writer who lives at Birch Hollow, above The Bog. As for personal injury, yeah, that bothers me a tad as well. But when I make a conscious attempt to stop the bone-jarring imprints, I might as well drain off the pent-up anticipation......because creativity is my most reliable outlet.....versus the spontaneous combustion I’m sure would happen, if and when I cease being able to compose these tomes.

So when I get aches and pains.....I remind myself about the joy of suffering for one’s craft!

If you’re a writer......I shouldn’t be your mentor. Have a good December. I’m going for a walk over to The Bog with Bosko the dog.....hopefully I’ll find something more to write about before lunch!