NEW YEARS IN BRACEBRIDGE

THE CLOCK TOWER IS THE BEACON, THE REMINDER OF THE GOOD TOWN THAT GREW HERE

HOME TOWN VALUES. WHAT DO THEY MATTER ANYWAY? ARE THEY AS STRONG AS THEY ONCE WERE? OR IS THIS THE TREND, THAT WE WILL DISTANCE OURSELVES FROM THE HISTORY THAT CREATED US?

IN MANY WAYS, IT SEEMS INEVITABLE, THAT FUTURE GENERATIONS WILL FEEL LESS ENTHUSED ABOUT THE REGISTRATION, AND RELEVANCE OF HISTORY AT ALL. THERE ARE NOT MANY UP AND COMING HISTORIANS. HOW MANY DO YOU KNOW? NEWSPAPERS AND THEIR EDITORS DO NOT MAKE THE BEST HISTORIANS WORKING ON THEIR OWN. THERE MUST ALWAYS BE A COMPLIMENT OF INDEPENDENT HISTORIANS, WITHOUT NEWSPAPER INFLUENCES AND POLITICS, WHO ARE ENTHUSED ABOUT THEIR PROJECTS TO RECORD OUR LIFE AND TIMES; THE EVENTS AND MILESTONES THAT SHAPE US. IN MANY, MANY COMMUNITIES TODAY, THE APPETITE FOR HISTORY IS GENERALLY FIT TO A SPECIFIC NEED, LIKE A TAILORED SUIT, AND NOT SOMETHING ONE WORKS ON, ROUTINELY OUT OF PASSION AND COMMITMENT. IT IS NOT ENOUGH TO HAVE BOOKS OF LOCAL HISTORY. THE MAINTENANCE OF HISTORY, AS A RELEVANT FORCE IN THESE HECTIC MODERN DAYS, IS ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE WITHOUT THE DRIVING FORCE OF THOSE WHO INSIST, ON HAVING THE BUILDING BLOCKS OF ONCE, PRESERVED, AND USED AND RE-USED TO DEFINE THE WAY IT WAS…….TO ENSURE THAT TOMORROW'S COMMUNITY BUILDERS HAVE RESPECT FOR THOSE WHO LAID DOWN THOSE FOUNDATION SLABS IN THE FIRST PLACE. WE CAN'T COUNT ON THE SCHOOLS TO GUARANTEE OUR LOCAL HISTORY REMAINS TOPICAL AND RELEVANT. THE CURRICULUM DOESN'T ALLOW FOR MUCH OF THIS. MUCH HISTORY IS BEING SACRIFICED THESE DAYS IN THE SCHOOL SYSTEM, AND TO THIS HISTORIAN, IT IS ALARMING WHAT IS NO LONGER CONSIDERED A BIG DEAL.

I HAVE JUST RETURNED FROM ONE OF OUR MOTOR TRIPS TO DOWNTOWN BRACEBRIDGE, WHERE I STOOD AT THE BASE OF THE CLOCK TOWER, OF THE OLD FEDERAL BUILDING, AND SLAPPED THE BRICK AS I USED TO, AS A KID, WHO SPENT MOST OF A CHILDHOOD WANDERING THESE PICTURESQUE STREETS. IT HAS ALWAYS BEEN A SORT OF BEACON AGAINST TIME, AND ITS ETCHING UPON THE CITIZENRY, AND I'M SO PLEASED IT HAS BEEN UNDER SUCH CAPABLE STEWARDSHIP, THAT IT HAS SURVIVED WELL INTO THIS NEW CENTURY…..THOSE ILLUMINATED CLOCK DIALS STILL KEEPING ME ON TIME, AND INSPIRED.

I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE MEASURE OF HOME TOWN PRIDE IS NEEDED, TODAY, TO GUARANTEE OUR HERITAGE ISN'T DIMINISHED ENTIRELY IN THE NEXT QUARTER CENTURY. I'D LIKE TO THINK IT HAS THE SAME DURABILITY AS THESE BRICKS ON THE GUARDIAN TOWER. BUT FOR US OLDTIMERS, WHO LOOK UPON THIS PLACE AS AN HEIRLOOM TO BE PASSED-ON TO FUTURE GENERATIONS, THERE IS A GENUINE CONCERN, ITS CHARACTER IS BECOMING LESS DEFINED, AS THOSE WHO HAVE LONG DEFENDED IT, ARE BECOMING FEWER AND FEWER.

MY PURPOSE FOR THIS SHORT SERIES OF CHRISTMAS SEASON BLOGS, IS TO PAY TRIBUTE TO A HOMETOWN THAT LOOKED AFTER ME VERY WELL, AS A YOUNGSTER, AND AS A YOUNG ADULT, AND MADE ME PROUD TO REPRESENT IT, AS A WRITER, AND AS AN HISTORIAN……OF WHICH I WILL CONTINUE DESPITE MY CRITICS. I WILL CONTINUE TO OFFER MY ASSISTANCE TO PROJECTS LIKE THE WOODCHESTER VILLA REVITALIZATION, AND I WILL NOT BE DISCOURAGED BY BEING LEFT OUT OF THE DISCUSSION, AS HAS BEEN THE WAY FOR YEARS AND YEARS. I WILL ALWAYS PUSH ONWARD, DESPITE, AND REPRESENT THE TRULY WONDERFUL QUALITIES AND QUANTITIES OF SAYING HONESTLY, BRACEBRIDGE WAS MY HOMETOWN.

HAPPY NEW YEARS.

NEW YEAR'S IN BRACEBRIDGE -

THE OLD GANG, A LOT OF FUN UP ON LIDDARD AND AUBREY STREETS - AND THEN WE GOT SERIOUS - THAT WASN'T ANY FUN

WE MAY HAVE HAD THE STRANGEST ROAD HOCKEY CONFIGURATION IN CANADA. IT'S WORTH A HOCKEY BOOK ON ITS OWN. IT WAS AN "L" SHAPED DRIVEWAY, AT THE HENRY HOME, UP ON LIDDARD. THAT'S RIGHT. WE PLAYED ON A RIGHT ANGLE. CRAZY. WE DEVELOPED HOCKEY SKILLS NO ONE HAD EVER SEEN BEFORE. WE HAD ABOUT TWENTY FEET OF STRAIGHTAWAY, AND A RIGHT TURN TO THE OPPONENT'S NET. IF WE TURNED LEFT, WE RAN INTO A TOUGH MAPLE. FRANK HENRY, OWNER OF THE LIDDARD STREET HOCKEY VENUE, JUST SHOOK HIS HEAD WHEN HE WENT TO WORK, AND THEN CAME BACK, AND WE WERE STILL TWISTING WITH SHARP RIGHTS AND EQUALLY SHARP LEFTS, TO GET A CLEAR SHOT ON NET. IT WAS CRAZY. FRANK'S SON STEVE WAS THE HOST, AND HE INVITED THE NEIGHBORHOOD LADS TO PLAY ON SATURDAYS, AND AT TIMES WE FILLED THE RESIDENTIAL LOT WITH HOCKEYISTS, PLAYING THE GREAT CANADIAN GAME. WHEN STEVE AND HIS DAD WENT TO A HUGE EFFORT TO BUILD A NATURAL ICE PAD, AT THE BACK OF THE HOUSE, WE JUST STOOD IN THE DRIVEWAY BANGING OUR STICKS. IT WOULDN'T BE THE SAME WITHOUT THE LEFT AND RIGHT TURNS TO THE NET. WE'D KEEP DITCHING IN THE SNOWBANK.

WE HAD PLAYERS BACK THEN LIKE RANDY CARSWELL, WHO ALSO PROVIDED THE PLAY BY PLAY, SCOTT RINTOUL, ROD BALDWIN, RON BOYER, ROGER TAVERNER, RICK HILLMAN, STEVE, MYSELF, AND A HALF DOZEN DAY-PLAYERS LIKE HIS SISTERS LINDA AND SUSAN.

EVEN THOUGH I WAS A HUNT'S HILL LAD, AND PROUD OF IT, THERE CAME A POINT IN MY ROAD HOCKEY CAREER, WHEN MY TEAM-MATES STARTED TO LISTEN TO ROCK 'N' ROLL, AND GAVE UP ON THE ALICE STREET SHINNY. I WAS DEVASTATED. SOON THOUGH, A SHIFT TO A NEW NEIGHBORHOOD, GAVE A LOT MORE ZING TO THE ROAD HOCKEY TRADITION, AND IT BECAME THE REAL LIFE "70'S SHOW," WITH SOME GREAT FOLKS. THE HENRY'S HOME WAS THE PERFECT PLACE TO HOLD OUR SOCIAL CLUB MEETINGS, AND YOU KNOW, THEIR WATCHFUL EYES, AND KEEN ADVISORIES, KEPT US OUT OF THE KIND OF TROUBLE TEENAGERS ARE DRAWN TO….THAT ARE USUALLY A TAD SELF DESTRUCTIVE. WE KIND OF POLICED OURSELVES, AND ENJOYED TEENAGE REBELLION BY PLAYING SPORTS, FROM BASEBALL TO SUMMER HOCKEY, SLEDDING IN THE WINTER, HIKING IN THE SUMMER.

I GET KIND OF SAPPY AT THIS TIME OF YEAR. SITTING HERE, LOOKING AT THE OLD PHOTOGRAPHS OF THOSE KODAK MOMENTS, WHEN WE REALLY DIDN'T HAVE A CLUE HOW WE'D WIND UP EVENTUALLY. I'M PRETTY SURE THEY WOULD HAVE AGREED, I'D BE IN SOME PENAL COLONY BY NOW, FOR MOUNTING SOME GOVERNMENT OVER-THROW, OR WORSE, AND I'M PRETTY SURE THEY'D HAVE BEEN RIGHT, IF IT HADN'T BEEN FOR THE CALMING DEGREE OF SENSIBLE PROPORTION, MENTORED BY THE HENRYS. I REMEMBER THE DAWSON GALS, LINDA AND MARION, (I DATED BOTH), JUDY GREY, NANCY CRUMP AND LINDA HENRY…..ALL FINE FRIENDS, FROM A REMARKABLE PERIOD OF THE 1970'S……WHEN THERE WERE SO MANY LIFE CHANGING SHARP RIGHT, AND LEFT TURNS WE COULD HAVE MADE……JUST LIKE OUR HOCKEY GAMES. BUT WE DIDN'T. ALL HAVE HAD PROSPEROUS AND SUCCESSFUL LIVES AND CAREERS, AND I'M SO HAPPY FOR THEM.

AT THE TIME, I THOUGHT WE'D BE TOGETHER FOREVER. IT NEVER ONCE CROSSED MY MIND, THAT MANY WOULD MOVE AWAY FROM MUSKOKA, AND THAT THE OLD DAYS WOULD BE JUST THAT…….SOME DOG EARRED PHOTOGRAPHS IN AN OLD ALBUM, DUST COVERED AND SMELLING A LITTLE MUSTY. IN MY MIND HOWEVER, THESE MEMORIES HAVE ALL BEEN MUCH CLOSER, MUCH DEARER, AND RECALLED MUCH MORE FREQUENTLY……..THAN I'M SURE THEY THINK OF ME, ALL THESE YEARS LATER. WHAT THEY GAVE ME, WAS MY SENSE OF HOME TOWN, A GREAT CHILDHOOD AND A SAFE TEENAGEHOOD…..WHEN I THINK HONESTLY, I COULD HAVE VERY EASILY STRAYED. IF I HAD, EVEN BY A STRAY MOLECULE, LEFT THE PATH I TOOK FROM THAT VINTAGE, IT IS VERY UNLIKELY I WOULD BE WHERE I AM TODAY…….HERE AT BIRCH HOLLOW, WITH MY WIFE SUZANNE AND TWO FINE MUSICIAN LADS, ANDREW AND ROBERT. IT WAS BECAUSE OF THEM. THEY MIGHT THINK THIS RIDICULOUS, BUT IT'S TRUE NONE THE LESS. THEY TEMPERED ME AT A TIME WHEN NO ONE ELSE, INCLUDING MY PARENTS, COULD CHANGE HISTORY. IT WAS LINDA DAWSON WHO CHASTISED ME FOR DRINKING, AND I KNEW IT WAS A TERRIBLE WAY TO TREAT SOMEONE YOU CARED ABOUT. I STOPPED. I HAVE REMEMBERED THE LOOK OF DISDAIN ON HER FACE, ALL THESE YEARS LATER. LOOKING AT SOMEONE SHE TRUSTED, HAVING A HARD TIME STANDING UPRIGHT. WHILE IT'S TRUE I HAD MANY ENCOUNTERS WITH BOOZE OVER THE YEARS, AT THE TIME, IT WAS LINDA WHO SOWED THE SEED OF DISCONTENT…….AND MADE ME AWARE OF THE COLLATERAL DAMAGE OF HAVING TOO MUCH FUN.

I AM GRATEFUL FOR THESE FRIENDSHIPS OF ONCE. THEY WERE THE MAKING OF ME…..FOR BETTER OR WORSE……GOD BLESS AND OF COURSE, HAPPY NEW YEAR FROM ONE OF THE OLD GANG.

NEW YEARS IN BRACEBRIDGE

ON A NIGHT LIKE THIS - THE CLOCK TOWER - LOST LOVE - STRANGE TOMORROWS AND FOOTSTEPS ACROSS A PARK

OFTEN THE MOST POIGNANT MEMORIES ARE SAD ONES. TIMES OF DISENCHANTMENT. MOMENTS WHEN IT SEEMS NOTHING COULD BE As DEVASTATING AS WHAT HAD JUST TRANSPIRED. I'VE GOT A LOT OF MEMORIES ABOUT BRACEBRIDGE, BUT THE ONE I CAN'T SHAKE, MARKED THE BEGINNING OF SOMETHING BETTER. I JUST DIDN'T KNOW IT AT THE TIME. I COULDN'T HAVE. THE ATMOSPHERE WAS TOO MURKY WITH SELF LOATHING, SELF PITY, AND AN UNQUESTIONABLE INKLING TOWARD SELF DESTRUCTION.

IT WAS JUST BEFORE NEW YEARS THAT I REALIZED A HIGH SCHOOL SWEETHEART AND I WERE OFFICIALLY A "FORMER" COUPLE. I HAD NO WARNING. FOR FIVE YEARS WE'D BEEN DATING, AND OUTSIDE OF THE TYPICAL ROCKY ROADS EVERY COUPLE EITHER ENDURES OR FAILS AT, WE HAD BEEN ABLE TO WEATHER THE PREVAILING STORM. AS A COUPLE, WE WERE LIKE OIL AND WATER. SHE WAS SMART, ATTRACTIVE, A GO-GETTER, AND I WAS A STRANGE COMBINATION OF HOCKEY PLAYER / POET, A HALF SCHOLAR WHEN I FELT LIKE IT, A TRADITIONALIST, HISTORIAN, WHO LIKED TO PLAY TABLE-TOP HOCKEY AS A PASSTIME. YEA, THE WRITING WAS ON THE WALL.

WHEN I RETURNED TO BRACEBRIDGE, AFTER UNIVERSITY, I HAD LOTS OF PROJECTS ON THE GO. I HAD JUST OPENED AN ANTIQUE BUSINESS ON MANITOBA STREET, COMMENCED AN HISTORICAL SOCIETY, STARTED WRITING A NEW MANUSCRIPT, AND GOT A PART TIME GIG AS A COLUMNIST FOR A NEW WEEKLY PAPER; AND AS A PROJECT CO-ORDINATOR FOR A MAJOR HISTORICAL RESEARCH ASSIGNMENT WITH THE FORMER MUSKOKA BOARD OF EDUCATION. GAIL WAS LIVING IN TORONTO, WHERE SHE WAS FINISHING UP UNIVERSITY. I WAS HAPPY TO LIVE FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE IN THE DISTRICT OF MUSKOKA. SHE HAD FOUND MANY EMPLOYERS WILLING TO INVEST IN HER SKILLS, EVEN BEFORE SHE GRADUATED. HER HORIZON WAS A MASSIVE PANORAMA. MINE WAS A PANORAMIC VIEW OVER BRACEBRIDGE'S MEMORIAL PARK, WHERE I WATCHED THE KIDS GOING AND COMING FROM SCHOOL, TYPING MADLY AWAY AT THE NOVEL THAT NEVER QUITE MADE IT TO THE PUBLISHER. I DRANK AND DRANK AND DRANK, AND THE NOVEL WAS A DISASTER. SHE BROKE THE NEWS TO ME. FIRST, YOUR NOVEL SUCKS, AND I'M BREAKING UP WITH YOU. IF SHE DIDN'T CALL ME A "TOOL," BET IT WAS THE DESCRIPTION ON HER MIND, AS I CLUNG ONTO HER FEET, AS SHE TRIED TO GET OUT THE DOOR. "I CAN CHANGE….I CAN CHANGE," I called out in the vapor of exhaust as she drove away.

I was also on the verge of becoming the new reporter for the Muskoka Lakes-Georgian Bay Beacon, and that meant a daily trip to the office in MacTier, a good forty minute plus drive one way. But it was on a damp, moonless night like this, with occasional flurries, that I finally got her message through my thick head. It wasn't the first time she'd suggested a cooling-off period, or a trial separation, which to those who are not married means an ever-lasting break-up. It was the night I learned there was someone else. His name was familiar, and I was devastated. Who wouldn't be? Moreso, it happened when I genuinely felt we would both end up in our hometown, happily employed, having a family, occupying a neat little house with a tasteful shrubbery, and then winding up in later years, feeding the squirrels in Memorial Park. I was such a dork.

On this particular night, just before the turn of January 1st, 1979, I found myself without a partner, most of my friends (which were also hers), the house of cards now collapsed with no survivors, and the lights of the clock tower, to remind me, minute by minute, just how foolish a dreamer I'd been for all these years. We had no business being a couple. We had few parallels of interest, and by the way, I wasn't the most gracious, considerate boyfriend either. I deserved what I got. Many people reminded me of that fact. But when you're clinging to the life raft, and you have a lot of rocks in your pocket, well, you've got a choice to make. You might unload all those rocks, and still find it impossible to climb into the raft. On the other hand, if you don't, the end is frightfully close. As I wandered the snowy streets that night, illuminated for mere seconds, by one street-light, obscured by darkness, illuminated again, and obscured as a pattern of my torture, it gradually became clear to me, that the one over-riding positive, was that my feet were firmly planted on home turf. I was where I wanted to be. I'd chosen Bracebridge, over Toronto, and many other locales in the province, long before our break-up. If there was any place to absorb the thud of a broken heart, it was here……and these were the streets that occupied my attention for so many years…….and the memories came flooding back, as if to say, "Teddy, old buddy, you can count on us." And I did. Whenever, during that long, bitterly cold winter of 1979, I found myself in some misery or other, a gentle meander through Memorial Park, up Nelson Street, to my two favorite schools, Bracebridge Public and BMLSS, and maybe down to Jubilee Park where I played baseball in the summer, quelled the wail of the injured beast. Possibly I'd even hike up Hunt's Hill, beyond the Muskoka River, to wander the length of Alice and Toronto Streets, where my ghost of childhood still dwells all these years later. I probably had welled-up eyes for those sentimental hikes, but gradually, I began to feel more confident, and it seemed right to be back in the bailiwick, where I'd had so much fun as a gad-about kid.

I have written a lot about home towns. They fascinate me. I always find solace, recalling the play "Our Town." And when I think about that particular year in my life, all I can say, is that Bracebridge was the place that brought me round again. The place that embraced me when I wondered if life was worth the pain and suffering. What guy hasn't experienced this….."it's all over" attitude when dumped. But honestly, if I'd been living in Toronto, as I was only a few months earlier, I'd have had nowhere to turn…..no friendly streets, no beckoning old haunts, no mates to visit when the mood got desperate. I don't know if this is a proper endorsement of a home town. I don't know whether it might seem trivial to some, or that any town on earth would have provided somewhat the same……short of the attached memories. Yet I knew in my heart, my rather tattered soul, that when I'd return up to my attic work-room, in the former McGibbon House, after such a walk, that I'd be able to tap at the keyboard until well past midnight…….getting the misgivings on paper, the typical option of a writer with attitude. It took a lot of walks, and a hell of a lot of paper, but the combination of familiar places, and a comfortable, friendly old home, made the transition so much better than the sandpaper reality, I'd been sliding down for months. I'd made the right decision to move home, and to make a life for myself in Muskoka.

As a result of this decision, I met another high school gal, I'd been sweet on even before Gail, and we hit it off…….and it started at the McGibbon House. Our two boys were born in Bracebridge. It was a home town in every sense, and it had afforded me a place to settle, to work, to participate, and to build a family. When I look at that illuminated clock tower, passing through town, I can still remember that night before New Years, when it reminded me of the reality I'd been trying desperately to dodge. Now it is a reflection of the moments of a good life, with the association of a good town.

It is true that Suzanne and I moved our young family to Gravenhurst back in 1989. Yet there will never be a time, when I will turn my back on this wonderful town, beneath the glowing clock tower, where the Muskoka River steams over the cataract of Bracebridge Falls, the train horn blasts away the winter calm, and the ghosts of an old writer, are precisely where I thought they'd be……playing where they have always played, wandering where they have always been inspired, and reminding me of the linkage of time and place, heart and soul. It was on a night like this, just like this, two years ago, when I came to the top of the old Queens Hill, and saw the beacon clock tower greeting me……and consoling me, on the passing of my father only moments earlier. As it had always been, I was comforted to be in the home town where so much family history had been made. I could see the silhouette of my mother too, walking toward me in the lamplight, as if to say, "Ed's okay Ted. We're both okay." It was the town they adored. It's where they lived in retirement, until the end. And this was it.

A lot can be attributed to home towns. Sentimental stuff. Romantic hinges that creak when opened and shut again. Much is sickly sweet and maudlin and not worth much more than a few lines of poetry in a journal of remembrances. This home town saved my life. It restored my life. It was a place for a soft landing, and a place of immeasurable inspiration when I needed it the most. I might live ten miles to the south today, but rest assured, Bracebridge is a lot closer in my heart.

Happy New Years to you!

NEW YEARS IN BRACEBRIDGE -

OUTDOOR RINK? TELL YOU WHERE IT USED TO BE - BUT YOU KNOW WHAT'S ON IT NOW! WHERE WERE THE DEFENDERS OF JUBILEE PARK WHEN THEY WERE NEEDED?

I READ ALL THE REPORTS AND COUNCIL DISCUSSIONS, IN THE LOCAL MEDIA, ABOUT A PROPOSED OUTDOOR RINK IN BRACEBRIDGE THIS YEAR. BY THE TONE OF IT, GEEZ, IT SEEMED LIKE THE VERY FIRST ONE EVER PROPOSED OR EXECUTED FOR OUTDOOR SKATING ENTHUSIASTS. BUT BY GOLLY, DID ANY ONE OF THE PROPONENTS OF THIS OUTDOOR RINK (WHICH I THINK IS A GREAT IDEA), THIS YEAR, OR MEMBERS OF COUNCIL, GIVE ONE SMIDGEON OF RECOLLECTION TO THE GOOD OLD DAYS IN BRACEBRIDGE…..AND THE ICE PADS OF ONCE.

WELL HERE'S THE THING, THAT IS ALSO THE TRUTH. THERE USED TO BE A LOVELY URBAN PARK….WITHIN WALKING DISTANCE OF MANY CENTRE-TOWN NEIGHBORHOODS, THAT PLAYED A WONDERFUL HOST TO TOWN SKATERS, WINTER CARNIVAL ENTHUSIASTS, AND YOUNGSTERS WHO ADORED WHAT FEW AMUSEMENTS IT AFFORDED. JUBILEE PARK WAS ALWAYS MODESTLY APPOINTED THAT WAY, BUT REGARDLESS, IT WAS GENERALLY OPEN SPACE IN AN APPROPRIATE, STRATEGIC, IMPORTANT PLACE IN AN URBAN-EXPANDING COMMUNITY.

DID ANY OF THE COUNCILLORS, OR THE VOLUNTEERS WHO WERE BEHIND THE PROJECT, ON PRIVATELY OWNED PROPERTY, FEEL A LITTLE BIT DIMINISHED WHEN THEY WERE SEEKING TO STRIKE AN AGREEMENT WITH THE TOWN, TO FUND A RINK, ON LAND THEY DIDN'T OWN? AT JUBILEE PARK….IT WOULD HAVE BEEN A DONE DEAL.

I read all the reports I could, and never saw a single reference (maybe I missed it), to the old days when the Town owned a marvelous park, wonderfully suited to an outdoor rink, but frittered it away because it seemed like a good idea at the time. No, I don't think there was much recollection of this shortfall of insight……despite the fact, town council was begged…..and I mean begged, to reconsider sacrificing town owned property in such an important urban position in the community. A park on the outskirts is fine……it should have been developed as a park anyway. But not as a trade-off, for a central open space that was used by the abutting neighborhoods for more than a century. It was an historic stewardship that should never have been sacrificed.

What makes me mad……and as I live in Gravenhurst, my opinion doesn't count for much, is that so many citizens of that town, stood back, held their opinions, and were prepared to live with the consequences, because the options they were presented with…..seemed "win, win!" Well, if the park supporters had the proverbial pot-to-piss-in, and could have afforded a better defense…..and had some of the armchair critics carrying those placards….like my wife and I did, with many others, maybe today, there would be the familiar clicking and gliding of silver blades, on the outdoor rink these proponents requested. So you see, there are consequences for our actions.

CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBRIDGE -

WASHINGTON IRVING - A FEW WORDS OF RECOGNITION - A LITERARY HERITAGE WE KNOW LITTLE ABOUT

IF, THEREFORE, I SHOULD SOMETIMES BE FOUND DWELLING WITH FONDNESS TO SUBJECTS THAT ARE TRITE AND COMMON-PLACED WITH THE READER, I BEG THE CIRCUMSTANCES UNDER WHICH I WRITE MAY BE KEPT IN RECOLLECTION." NOTES GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT., THE CHARACTER-TRAVELLER, WASHINGTON IRVING USED IN "THE SKETCH BOOK," AND THE LATER "BRACEBRIDGE HALL," OF WHICH BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO IS NAMED.

"BUT, IN FACT, TO BE EVERYTHING WAS FULL OF MATTER; THE FOOTSTEPS OF HISTORY WERE EVERY WHERE TO BE TRACED; AND POETRY HAD BREATHED OVER AND SANCTIFIED THE LAND. I EXPERIENCED THE DELIGHTFUL FRESHNESS OF FEELING OF A CHILD, TO WHO EVERY THING IS NEW. I PICTURED TO MYSELF A SET OF INHABITANTS AND A MODE OF LIFE FOR EVERY HABITATION THAT I SAW, FROM THE ARISTOCRATICAL MANSION, AMIDST THE LORDLY REPOSE OF STATELY GROVES AND SOLITARY PARKS, TO THE STRAW-THATCHED COTTAGE, WITH ITS SCANTY GARDENS AND ITS CHERISHED WOODBINE. I THOUGHT I NEVER COULD BE SATED WITH THE SWEETNESS AND FRESHNESS OF A COUNTRY SO COMPLETELY CARPETED WITH VERDUE; WHERE EVERY AIR BREATHED OF THE BALMY PASTURE, AND THE HONEYSUCKLED HEDGE. I WAS CONTINUALLY COMING UP WITH SOME DOCUMENTS OF POETRY IN THE BLOSSOMED HAWTHORN, THE DAISY, THE COWSLIP, THE PRIMROSE, OR SOME OTHER SIMPLE OBJECT THAT HAS RECEIVED A SUPERNATURAL VALUE FROM THE MUSE. THE FIRST TIME THAT I HEARD THE SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE, I WAS INTOXICATED MORE BY THE DELICIOUS CROWD OF REMEMBERED ASSOCIATIONS THAN BY THE MELODY OF ITS NOTES; AND I SHALL NEVER FORGET THE THRILL OF ECSTASY WITH WHICH I FIRST SAW THE LARK RISE, ALMOST FROM BENEATH MY FEET, AND WING ITS MUSICAL FLIGHT UP INTO THE MORNING SKY."

CRAYON, THROUGH THE CREATIVE MEASURES OF THE GOOD MR. IRVING, WROTE, "THESE STORIES (FOLK TALES), HOWEVER, AS I BEFORE OBSERVED, ARE FAST FADING AWAY, AND IN ANOTHER GENERATION OR TWO WILL PROBABLY BE COMPLETELY FORGOTTEN. THERE IS SOMETHING, HOWEVER, ABOUT THESE RURAL SUPERSTITIONS THAT IS EXTREMELY PLEASING TO THE IMAGINATION, PARTICULARLY THOSE WHICH RELATE TO THE GOOD HUMOURED RACE OF HOUSEHOLD DEMONS, AND INDEED TO THE WHOLE FAIRY MYTHOLOGY. THE ENGLISH HAVE GIVEN AN INEXPRESSIBLE CHARM TO THESE SUPERSTITIONS, BY THE MANNER IN WHICH THEY HAVE ASSOCIATED THEM WITH WHATEVER IS MOST HOME-FELT AND DELIGHTFUL IN RUSTIC LIFE, OR REFRESHING AND BEAUTIFUL IN NATURE."

I can remember, on a Christmas morning just as this, sitting in the attic of the former home and office of Dr. Peter McGibbon, on upper Manitoba Street, opposite Memorial Park, and watching out of the large window that afforded a wonderful panorama of the park and mainstreat. It was an amazing old structure, pleasantly haunted, and a comfortable place to set up my first writing studio. It was in the fall of 1977 that we arrived, as a family, to lodge at the McGibbon House, which had only recently been turned into several apartment units, with retail space below. It's where we opened Birch Hollow Antiques. I took over the huge attic, and set my desk as close to the window as I could, so that there would be as little compromise to the view as possible. I loved that attic. I had no difficulty whatsoever, finding things to write about.

It was from that attic, overlooking the good old town, that I began organizing for the creation of the Bracebridge Historical Society, which would become a reality a year later; Bracebridge's first public museum in less than three years. It was when I first began reading about Washington Irving, as a biography, knowing the provenance then, of how Bracebridge received its name……an event that dated back to the year 1864.

While it wasn't until the late 1990's that I got around to doing a lengthy text on the subject, which was published in book form in the year 2000, I was enthralled by the author's work even then……and read many times "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow." When we first arrived in Bracebridge, as a family, back in the winter of 1966, the moment we drove over the famous silver bridge, and the historic main street became visible, my mother said, quite innocently, we've moved to "Sleepy Hollow." It wasn't a derogatory statement…..as she adored the work of Mr. Irving, as I did……having grown up with this stories as a child. I realized that William Dawson LeSueur, in 1864, not long after the death of Irving and the release of a new collection of his stories, decided as a postal authority, responsible for naming new Canadian post offices, to pay tribute to the late author, his work, and a fledgling town in the District of Muskoka. LeSueur was also a noted historian, literary critic, and philosopher himself, and he would not have granted this name, if he hadn't respected the work of the American author. He did roughly the same in Gravenhurst, but instead named the town after a book by William Henry Smith, a poet philosopher, after the title of his book, "Gravenhurst, or Thoughts on Good and Evil." In this case, it was also an honor and provenance awarded to author and town, but it wasn't embraced as such……and still isn't. Actually, the same can be said for both towns.

I have hopes that one day, some decade in the future, the citizens of Bracebridge, will come to fully appreciate their connection to the historical legend of Washington Irving, as the town has a perfect right to boast this connection from the highest roof-top. It is significant. Being part of the literary heritage of an international author, of his accomplishment, is of particular honor…..that has never fully been explored. The connections to the literary heritage of the Irving name, could fan-out across North America, as there are many other regions, towns and cities, that have such a connection.

If ever there was an under-utilized resource, in this community, it is the link created by Dr. LeSueur in the year 1864, to a literary giant. Some day, this may become significant……but it won't be politically driven. It must come from those who appreciate the provenance, and the stewardship of the namesake, and be prepared to develop it to a full potential……and of course, that can include a boost to the tourism sector……of folks who wouldn't mind visiting a community named after the author of Rip Van Winkle and the Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

"I AM DWELLING TOO LONG, PERHAPS, UPON A THREADBARE SUBJECT, YET IT BRINGS UP WITH IT A THOUSAND DELICIOUS RECOLLECTIONS OF THOSE HAPPY DAYS OF CHILDHOOD, WHEN THE IMPERFECT KNOWLEDGE I HAVE SINCE OBTAINED HAD NOT YET DAWNED UPON MY MIND, AND WHEN A FAIRY TALE WAS TRUE HISTORY TO ME. I HAVE OFTEN BEEN SO TRANSPORTED BY THE PLEASURE OF THESE RECOLLECTIONS, AS ALMOST TO WISH THAT I HAD BEEN BORN IN THE DAYS WHEN THE FICTIONS OF POETRY WERE BELIEVED. EVEN NOW I CANNOT LOOK UPON THOSE FANCIFUL CREATIONS OF IGNORANCE AND CREDULITY WITHOUT A LURKING REGRET THAT THEY HAVE ALL PASSED AWAY. THE EXPERIENCE OF MY EARLY DAYS TELLS ME, THAT THEY WERE SOURCES OF EXQUISITE DELIGHT; AND I SOMETIMES QUESTION WHETHER THE NATURALIST WHO CAN DISSECT THE FLOWERS OF THE FIELD, RECEIVES HALF THE PLEASURE FROM CONTEMPLATING THEM, THAT HE DID WHO CONSIDERED THEM THE ABODE OF ELVES AND FAIRIES." MR. CRAYON. (WASHINGTON IRVING)

I had a copy of The Sketch Book on my shelf, up in that first office, above Memorial Park, and I consulted it frequently. I concur with what Irving writes, and can parallel my own beliefs, with his life-long fascination by the unknowns of the world……left to flourish in their own mysterious circumstance. How interesting it is, to think then, that famous author Charles Dickens, once confessed, that he always retired "to bedlam" with a copy of Irving's stories tucked under his arm. This is a special literary link, that Bracebridge will one day, more fully appreciate; the international connectedness, that can be cultivated into a truly prosperous future harvest.

Merry Christmas.

CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBRIDGE

THAT OLD GHOST OF MINE - ARSE OUT OF HIS SNOWPANTS - A SLIVER STICK - TWO ICE GOAL POSTS AND WISHFUL THINKING

I TOOK A DRIVE UP TO BRACEBRIDGE'S ALICE STREET TODAY. SAW MY GHOST. I DIDN'T NEED THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST TO DO THIS. NO MATTER WHAT THEY DO TO THAT STREET IN THE NEXT HUNDRED YEARS, SOMEONE WILL LOOK OUT OF A CONDO WINDOW, FROM THE NINETIETH FLOOR, AND SEE MY GHOST PLAYING HOCKEY, CALLING THE PLAY BY PLAY…….ON HIS OWN UP-ICE RUSH. I DIDN'T NEED MUCH MORE THAN THAT OLD STICK, LUMPS OF ICE (THEY WERE CHEAP), AND A PUCK. I HAD LOTS OF THOSE AND SLIVER (BLADE) STICKS, I HAULED HOME FROM THE ARENA FOR ROAD HOCKEY. MY PARENTS DIDN'T HAVE MUCH MONEY TO SPEND ON TOYS, AND WHILE I PROBABLY GOT A NEW HOCKEY STICK UNDER THE CHRISTMAS TREE, IT WAS USUALLY THE CHEAPEST MONEY COULD BUY. BLESS THEIR HEARTS, THEY TRIED, AND I APPRECIATED IT. UNFORTUNATLY, AFTER A COUPLE OF GAMES, THERE WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN EVEN A SLIVER OF THAT BLADE LEFT. IT'S TRUE, I LIED TO THEM ABOUT THE WELFARE OF THE STICK….AND AS FAR AS THEY KNEW, I NEVER BROKE ONE THAT SANTA HAD PROVIDED.

WHEN I GO UP THERE, TO ALICE STREET, I CAN'T HELP BUT GET MISTY-EYED. WHEN I WENT OFF TO UNIVERSITY IN THE FALL OF 1974, WE WERE ON THE VERGE OF MOVING TO A SMALL COTTAGE ON ALPORT BAY, OF LAKE MUSKOKA. IT WAS A SMALL COTTAGE AND WE GOT A GOOD RENT FOR BASCIALLY BABYSITTING A LAKESIDE PROPERTY FOR AN OUT-OF-THE-COUNTRY FAMILY. BY THIS TIME, MY FAMILY WAS DOING MUCH BETTER FINANCIALLY, AND AS I WAS AWAY FOR MOST OF THE YEAR, THE FOOD BILLS DROPPED DRASTICALLY. I REMEMBER CATCHING A RIDE TO TORONTO, THAT SEPTEMBER DAY, AND LOOKING AT ALICE STREET AS IF IT HAD BEEN A LIVING HELL……A PLACE I'D RATHER FORGET, AND NEVER COME BACK TO…… I WAS FREE. OFF TO CONQUER THE WORLD. IT SEEMED THE BEGINNING OF SUCH AN AMAZING ADVENTURE. THAT LAST LOOK BACK, SHOWED A RUN-DOWN OLD BUILDING, WHERE TEN FAMILIES HOLED-UP INDEFINITELY, WAITING FOR THEIR PROVERBIAL SHIP TO COME IN…….FOR SOME IT NEVER CAME AND THIS WAS THE LAST PLACE THEY SAW BEFORE HEADING OFF IN THE AMBULANCE OR HEARSE.

I can't tell you how rotten I have felt for all these years, having had such a terrible opinion of that apartment building. I was wrong. I came to appreciate this shortly after graduating university, and returning to Bracebridge…..and another new residence on upper Manitoba Street….the former home and medical office of Dr. Peter McGibbon. It all began, really, when my girlfriend, at the time, didn't respect my plan to move home, at a time when she was turning-on to the great aspects of city living. I tried it her way, and it didn't work. It was okay going to school, but not living in Toronto year round. This is odd, because both my parents had long relationships with the city, and my grandfather, a builder, has a street named after him…..Jackson Avenue, where some of his houses still exist. I was living in the area of Jane and Runnymede, where my mother's family lived, but it didn't matter. My decision to move back to Muskoka cost me a girlfriend, two jobs I quit within hours of starting, as well as losing many of my friends, who left Bracebridge for good, around the same time.

I can remember the Christmas season, that Gail gave me the proverbial heave-ho, wandering in a stupor, around the streets of the town, over by Bracebridge Public School, the High School, down along the tracks by the train station, and up eventually to Alice Street. I went to the variety store, we used to know as Black's, and then Lil and Cec's, and bought a pop and chips, and despite the snow, I stood there and weathered all the memories I'd turned my back on previously. I came back to Muskoka for a reason. As my family left Burlington, in the mid 1960's, as an escape from city life, to the Muskoka wilds, the prodigal son had returned…..humble, alone (all our friends were hers too….and they had to choose and it wasn't me), and looking for answers. Why had it been so important to come back to Bracebridge? What compelled me to wander up, tears in eyes, lost in love, to retrace the steps of an Alice Street kid……who, I realize now, had been having the time of his life. It had never been a hell on earth. This most likely came for the fact my parents fought a lot in those days, and my father enjoyed the drink to excess……and all the problems this can cause a family with financial woes. But it was also a comforting place, in many ways, and if it's true what some sage folks claim, that buildings can have a soul…..then the soul within that three story complex, must have been related to Burl Ives. Every time I see that "Frosty The Snowman" cartoon, with Burl as the host snowman, I always think of that Alice Street apartment, circa 1966 to 1974.

Merle and Ed are deceased now, and when I look up at that third floor window, on a frosty night as this, I know that in the heart of that home, once, the three of us are together this Christmas Eve, enjoying the simple pleasures of the season. We didn't have much but it was enough to make us feel wealthy in spirit, if nothing else.

Suzanne and the boys, understand my pilgrimages up to Alice Street, each Christmas, and although I won't make it a stipulation in my will, I kind of expect they would turn up there in my absence, to connect with the once, long ago, of a fellow who felt a strange debt of gratitude about a place, a time, and a circumstance; like the faded old family photograph, Merle stuck in a beaten-up family Bible she left behind. She knew I'd find it…..and pause in that confluence of contemplation, of whether to tuck it back inside, or let it inspire a little warmth on a cold, cold Christmas Eve. She knew me well!

I come away from these short, silent vigils, with good memories. I don't wish for my own return to those days, and I don't feel any necessity to make amends now. More than this, I suppose, I want to keep those few memories fresh…..and these little editorials in a modest biography, for my sons, for their knowledge….and for their children, and grandchildren…..to know what it was like growing up in Bracebridge, Ontario…..in an era that was an awful lot of fun.

Merry Christmas, folks.

CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBRIDGE

MINOR HOCKEY AMALGAMATION BETWEEN THE TOWNS HAS WORKED BEFORE - IN THE 1970'S, TO OUR MUTUAL BENEFIT

THE BIG NEWS THIS WEEK IS THAT A DEAL MAY BE INKED SOON, TO FINALIZE AN AMALGAMATION OF TWO FINE HOCKEY ASSOCIATIONS……BRACEBRIDGE AND GRAVENHURST. POSSIBLY BY APRIL THERE WILL BE A LARGER GEOGRAPHICAL AREA FROM WHICH TO DRAW PLAYERS, AND THE YOUTH FROM BOTH TOWN, WILL BENEFIT FROM A STRONGER REGIONAL REPRESENTATION WITHIN ONTARIO MINOR HOCKEY. ONE OF THE NAMES I READ ABOUT, FROM THE BRACEBRIDGE SIDE OF NEGOTIATIONS, BARRY HAMMOND, IS A GENTLEMAN OF MUSKOKA SPORTS, AND CERTAINLY AN AMBASSADOR OF LOCAL HOCKEY…….AND A PRETTY FAIR PLAYER FROM HIS HEYDAY. ALL I KNOW, IS IF HE IS ADMITTING THE HEALTH OF THE SYSTEM DEPENDS ON THIS FUTURE AMALGAMATION, IT MUST BE THE RIGHT THING TO DO.

BACK IN MY HOCKEY VINTAGE OF THE 1960'S AND EARLY 70'S, WE HAD QUITE A NUMBER OF GRAVENHURST PLAYERS COMING OUT FOR OUR ALLSTAR TEAMS, WHICH I BELIEVE BEGAN IN MIDGET AND CARRIED ON FOR A NUMBER OF YEARS, ESPECIALLY IN THE EARLY 70'S OF WHICH I AM MOST FAMILIAR. THE TOWNS HELPED EACH OTHER, AND WE HAD SOME MEMORABLE TEAMS BACK THEN. THESE WERE ALSO SCHOOL MATES, AS WE ALSO HAD A FAIR NUMBER OF GRAVENHURST STUDENTS AT BRACEBRIDGE AND MUSKOKA LAKES SECONDARY SCHOOL, TAKING PROGRAMS NOT OFFERED AT GRAVENHURST HIGH SCHOOL. THE BRACEBRIDGE JUNIOR "C" BEARS WEREN'T TOO MUCH DIFFERENT, WITH A SOLID REPRESENTATION OF TWO TOWNS MAKING ONE TEAM A LEAGUE AND ONTARIO CONTENDER, UNDER COACH DANNY POLAND. AND I'M GLAD TO SEE THAT THE EXECUTIVES OF GRAVENHURST MINOR HOCKEY CONCUR, AT THIS POINT, AND I DO BELIEVE IT'S AN OPPORTUNITY TO DEAL WITH FUTURE GROWTH, OR NOT, IN THE REGION.

IT'S QUITE TRUE, AND ENTIRELY FAIR COMMENT THAT GRAVENHURST COUNCIL HAS INVESTED HEAVILY IN BROADENING THE SENIORS HOUSING MARKET, AND WE'VE GOT A PRETTY GOOD SIZE RETIREMENT COMMUNITY…….BUT NOT SO, IN THE TO-BE-EXPECTED EXPANSION OF FAMILIES, TO FILL OUT OUR NEIGHBORHOODS, THAT WE NEED TO SUPPORT NOT ONLY MINOR HOCKEY, AND MINOR SPORTS GENERALLY, BUT OUR PUBLIC SCHOOLS, WHICH ARE SEEING A TROUBLING TREND LATELY…….WITHOUT MUCH TO SUGGEST IT'S GOING TO CHANGE OVER THE NEXT DECADE. SO, AS AN ARMCHAIR CRITIC, WHO SPENT A LOT OF TIME SPORTS REPORTING FOR THE HERALD-GAZETTE, IN MY OWN HEYDAY, THIS IS A PRO-ACTIVE MOVE, TO MAKE A MORE DYNAMIC AND RESILIENT HOCKEY SYSTEM…..WITH MORE SECURE ENROLLMENT.

WHAT SHOULD BE CONSIDERED HERE…..AND I GUESS I'M A GOOD ONE TO THROW UP AS A TARGET, SHOULD ANYONE WISH TO TAKE A POT-SHOT…….IS THE REALITY, THAT MORE THAN EVER, OUR COMMUNITIES ARE COMING CLOSER TOGETHER. OBVIOUSLY THE LAND IN BETWEEN US ISN'T SHRINKING, BUT THE POPULATION IS MOST DEFINITELY SHARING MORE NOW THAN I REMEMBER IN THE RECENT PAST. WHILE NO ONE IN GRAVENHURST WILL APPROVE OF THE TITLE "BEDROOM COMMUNITY," THE TRUTH IS, WE HAVE A PRETTY SUBSTANTIAL PORTION OF THE PERMANENT POPULATION THAT EITHER WORKS IN BRACEBRIDGE, OR HAS BUSINESS INTERESTS THERE……..BUT THEY RESIDE TO THE SOUTH. I THINK IT WORKS THE OTHER WAY AROUND, AS WELL, ESPECIALLY CONSIDERING OUR FEDERAL PENITENTIARY, AND RETIREMENT HOMES, WHERE BRACEBRIDGE CITIZENS COME TO WORK. IT'S NOT SOMETHING WE TALK ABOUT, OR WANT TO ENGAGE DUE TO HISTORIC SENSITIVITIES, BUT AS AN HISTORIAN SERVING BOTH COMMUNITIES FOR MANY YEARS…..WHAT THE HELL. "WE NEED EACH OTHER." THAT DOESN'T MEAN WE CAN'T HAVE RIVALRY, AND MAINTAIN SEPARATE ENTITIES BUT AS A POWER IN THE REGION OF SOUTH MUSKOKA, I LIKE THE IDEA OF TWO TOWNS HUSTLING TOWARD ONE OBJECTIVE……AND THAT'S WHAT HAS BEEN GOING ON IN TOURISM FOR DECADES, AND QUITE SUCCESSFULLY…..WITHOUT ANY NEED FOR ONE TOWN OR THE OTHER TO SURRENDER……OR EITHER ONE TO BE AFFORDED THE TITLE OF "CHAMPION" OF THE REGIONAL HUSTLE FOR SUPREMACY. THAT IS AN HISTORIC THING THAT HAD MORE TO DO WITH SPORTS RIVALRY THAN ANYTHING ELSE.

THIS IS ONLY A THUMB-NAIL OVERVIEW, BECAUSE AS I'VE WRITTEN IN MY GRAVENHURST BLOG PREVIOUSLY, THERE HAS BEEN, AND CONTINUES TO BE POLITICAL AND ECONOMIC RIVALRY…..ABOUT GOVERNMENT INVESTMENT. AND THERE IS THAT OLD FEAR LURKING, THAT THE GRAVENHURST HIGH SCHOOL, BY NECESSITY OF BOARD POLICY, WILL BE LOOKING AT THE PROBLEMS OF DECLINING FUTURE ENROLLMENT……WHICH, AS IT WAS PROPOSED A NUMBER OF YEARS AGO, COLULD INVOLVES AMALGAMATION…. BETWEEN THE SCHOOLS……WHICH MEANS GRAVENHURST STUDENTS BEING BUSSED NORTH TO THE NEW BMLSS. THOSE PEOPLE WHO WERE ON THE COMMITTEE TO STOP THIS, AND PROTECT THE FUTURE OF GHS, INCLUDING THIS WRITER, ARE STILL VERY MUCH AWARE THE ISSUE COULD REAR ITS HEAD ANY TIME. I DON'T THINK IT WILL BE QUITE AS FRIENDLY BETWEEN THE TWO TOWNS, FOR SOME OBVIOUS REASONS…….IF THIS WAS TO MAKE THE FRONT NEWS AGAIN. I'D PROBABLY RE-JOIN THE COMMITTEE, BECAUSE I KNOW HOW DEVASTATING A MOVE IT WOULD BE. A FAR, FAR REMOVED SITUATION, FROM THE SENSIBLE AMALGAMATION OF TWO HOCKEY LEAGUES.

My original hometown in Muskoka, was Bracebridge, from the winter of 1966 to the fall of 1988. We moved to Gravenhurst, but our business was on the main street of Bracebridge, where it remained until the mid-1990's, when I left it to work as public relations director of the Muskoka wing of the Crozier Foundation for Youth,….. begun by local hockey hero, Roger Crozier. It was Roger who appointed me as the first curator of the Bracebridge Sports Hall of Fame, which I enjoyed immensely up to my retirement several years ago. Some Bracebridge folks didn't like the fact I was their hall of fame guardian, living in Gravenhurst. I'd point out to them that, the man who helped initiate and finance the beautiful Hall of Fame showcases, at their arena, was a former homeowner, who lived in Pennsylvania. What was funny, for those years, was that the Town of Gravenhurst wouldn't even talk to me, about doing a similar exhibit in their arena……even though they knew who I was, where I lived, and how to contact me……..and some times I sat in the stands to watch junior hockey games with son Robert, and it was never even mentioned in small talk, that maybe I could help set something like that up in the town where my family resided. Well, truth be known…..and it was funny how it happened, but I actually did create one small exhibit in the old showcases, at the arena entrance. Old friend Ken Silcox, who played on one of the Bracebridge Oldtimer Teams, did ask me if I could help him set up an old-time exhibit, in recognition of an upcoming anniversary tournament, shared between Bracebridge and Gravenhurst. Ken and I went in one afternoon, did the work, left, folks enjoyed it, talked about it, and then it was removed quickly and quietly, I guess so Gravenhurst wouldn't get pissed about a Bracebridge curator (who happened to live four blocks away), meddling with their hockey relics. I put about 12 years in, at the Bracebridge Hall of Fame, and slid back into obscurity, you might say, here in Gravenhurst. Still have an interest in it……sort of…..but I'm not expecting to be asked any time soon, to don the curator's smock and gloves, to set up shop in our newly expanded recreation centre.

I heartily support an amalgamation, at this time in our regional athletics, especially hockey, for the welfare of all the hockeyists in both towns……both having truly interesting sports heritage and time honored traditions that will shine through, individually and collectively, into the future. Just watch. You'll see!

CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBRIDGE -

ON THE ROAD WITH DAD - AN AWAY GAME - THE HOT STOVE LEAGUE - IT BURNED - WE CAME, WE PLAYED, WE CRIED

I WAS A FIEND FOR HOCKEY. I LOOKED FORWARD TO WHATEVER HOCKEY WAS ON THE SCHEDULE, POSTED AT THE BRACEBRIDGE ARENA, AND WHAT THE LOCAL LADS WERE PLANNING FOR ROAD HOCKEY THAT HOLIDAY WEEK. WHEN WE WEREN'T PLAYING HOCKEY, ON THE ROAD, ON AN ICE PAD, OR ON AN OUTDOOR RINK, WE WERE PLAYING TABLE-TOP HOCKEY. THESE WERE THE FINAL DAYS OF THE ORIGINAL SIX NATIONAL HOCKEY LEAGUE. AND FOR CHRISTMAS, YOU BET……A MAPLE LEAF JERSEY UNDER THE TREE. NOT MONTREAL. I WOULD NOT HAVE WORN IT IN BRACEBRIDGE THAT'S FOR SURE. THIS WAS MAPLE LEAF COUNTRY. IT WAS HOWEVER, ACCEPTABLE THEN TO WEAR A DETROIT RED WING SWEATER, AS ROGER CROZIER WAS THEIR ALL STAR NETMINDER…..AND HE WAS A HOMETOWNER WHO MADE IT TO THE BIG LEAGUES. WE WANTED TO FOLLOW HIM ALL THE WAY TO THE STANLEY CUP FINALS…..NOT JUST AS FANS, BUT AS TEAM-MATES. OR AT LEAST WE THOUGHT WE COULD MAKE THE CUT. SO WE TRIED REAL HARD TO IMPRESS OUR COACHES, AND ANY SCOUTS LURKING IN THE STANDS.

CHRISTMAS WEEK HOCKEY GAMES. BETWEEN CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEARS WE GOT TO TRAVEL TO SOME OF THE MORE INTERESTING ICE PALACES IN MUSKOKA, AS OUR FESTIVE HOCKEY SEASON WAS A LITERAL WINTER-JAM OF FOUR OR FIVE GAMES, INSIDE THE COLDEST PLACES ON EARTH. I MEAN THAT. MY TOES FEEL FROZEN JUST THINKING ABOUT THOSE VENUES. WE WERE SPOILED IN BRACEBRIDGE BECAUSE WE HAD ARTIFICIAL ICE. IT'S TRUE WHAT THEY SAY. THE NUMBER OF SOCKS DOESN'T MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE, OTHER THAN IT TAKES LONGER TO TAKE THEM OFF TO GET WARMTH ONTO WHITE FROSTY TOES, FROM AN OLD STOVE PIPE. I LEARNED THIS THE HARD WAY.

THE AWAY GAMES? WE COULDN'T BELIEVE OUR CRAPPY FORTUNE. REALLY! IT STARTED LIKE THIS. SNOWMAGEDON! MOST MINOR HOCKEYISTS AND DOTING PARENTS HAVEN'T SEEN SNOW THE WAY WE DID, BACK IN MY VINTAGE. NOW, I'M ONLY 56, AT LEAST THAT'S WHAT SUZANNE TELLS ME……BUT I'M FEELING SO DARN OLD. MAYBE IT'S WRITING RECOLLECTIONS LIKE THIS, MAKING ME FEEL I'VE GOT ONE FOOT ON THE PROVERBIAL BANANA PEEL. WHEN A FRIEND RECENTLY ASKED HOW OLD I WAS, SUZANNE BUTTED-IN AND SUGGESTED I SHOW HER MY TEETH…….AS IF I WAS A HORSE. I'M JUST PLEASED TO STILL BE ABLE TO REMEMBER SOME OF THESE WINTRY TALES……AFTER ALL THESE YEARS OF MARRIAGE. (SUZANNE IS LOOKING OVER MY SHOULDER AS I WRITE THIS, AND MAKING GRUNTING NOISES OF DISAPPROVAL).

BUT HERE'S A STORY ABOUT PERSISTENCE, COLD ARENAS, A FATHER'S COMMITMENT TO A SON, (HE THOUGHT WAS NHL BOUND) AND THE TEARS OF PLEASURE. I WROTE A LITTLE ABOUT THIS, SHORTLY AFTER MY FATHER DIED SEVERAL YEARS AGO. YOU SEE I FELT GUILTY, THAT I'D NEVER REALLY THANKED HIM FOR ALL THE TIMES HE GOT OFF WORK, AND THEN HAD TO DRIVE FOUR OR FIVE KIDS TO OUR AWAY GAMES IN PORT CARLING, MACTIER, BALA, BAYSVILLE AND GRAVENHURST. SOME OF THE SNOWSTORMS WE DROVE THROUGH WERE SPECTACULAR. TODAY IT WOULDN'T BE DONE, BUT THEN, IT WAS JUST CANADIAN WINTER DOING ITS THING. THERE WAS NO MONEY IN THE TEAM BUDGET FOR A BUS. THERE WAS NO GAS MONEY EITHER, SO ED WAS ALWAYS OUT OF POCKET IN THOSE DAYS.

I STARTED PLAYING HOCKEY IN MUSKOKA IN THE FALL OF 1966. I'D COME FROM BURLINGTON, AND PLAYED MY HOCKEY GAMES THEN, AT 2 A.M. TO POSSIBLY 4 A.M., AND THAT MIGHT INCLUDE PLAYING ON AN OUTDOOR KIWANIS RINK…..IN THE SNOW. AS DEMAND ON THE CITY'S ICE SURFACES WAS EXTREME, THE TOWN LEAGUE KIDS WEREN'T THE PRIORITY ICE USERS. WHEN MOVED TO BRACEBRIDGE, OUR ICE TIME BEGAN AT 7 A.M. ON AN AVERAGE SATURDAY MORNING, AND WENT TO ABOUT NOON. PRIME TIME AS FAR AS I WAS CONCERNED.

WHEN I JOINED THE ALLSTAR TEAMS, WE HAD TO TRAVEL THROUGHOUT THE REGION. THE BRACEBRIDGE AND HUNTSVILLE RINKS WERE PRETTY GOOD AT THE TIME, AND GRAVENHURST WAS A LITTLE ROUGH AROUND THE EDGES, AND COLD, THE OTHERS WERE ESSENTIALLY OUTDOOR RINKS WITH TIN ROOVES. WHEN YOU LET A SLAP SHOT GO AGAINST THE BOARDS, THE WHOLE PLACE RATTLED, AS IF FROZEN AS ONE LARGE CHUNK OF MUSKOKA ICE. TALK ABOUT ECHO. THAT WAS SCARY COLD.

FIRST OF ALL, TO GET THERE!!! OUR FAMILY CAR WAS, BY ANY STANDARD, BETTER LOOKING THAN THE CLAMPETT'S TRUCK, BUT NOT AS GOOD AS ANY OTHER VEHICLE ON THE ROAD. IT WAS ALL WE COULD AFFORD. IT WAS A JALOPY. THE HEATER WORKED OCCASIONALLY. VERY OCCASIONALLY, AND THE WINDSHIELD WIPERS NEVER DID A GREAT JOB, ESPECIALLY IN A HEAVY STORM. WE'D PILE INTO OUR CAR AT THE ARENA, AND MY FATHER, ED, WOULD CLEAN OFF THE WINDSHIELD BY HAND….IF THE WIPERS WEREN'T DOING IT WELL ENOUGH, AND THEN CHECK TO SEE IF WE WERE ALL SAFELY PLACED IN THE SMALL CAR. THE TRUNK WOULD JUST CLICK SHUT WITHOUT AN INCH OF BREATHING ROOM. I WAS A GOALIE, SO MUCH OF THE EQUIPMENT WAS MINE. ED ALWAYS KEPT THE WINDOW OPEN A CRACK, SO THAT WHOEVER WAS UNLUCKY TO HAVE TO SIT BEHIND HIM, GOT A FACE FULL OF SNOW FROM BRACEBRIDGE TO OUR DESTINATION. ED COULD ALSO SHOVE HIS ARM OUT OF THE WINDOW, TO CLEAN THE REAR VIEW MIRROR, AND PULL ICE FROM THE WINDSHIELD WITHOUT STOPPING THE CAR. I THINK THERE WERE TIMES HE HAD TO LOOK OUT THE OPEN WINDOW TO SEE THE EDGE OF THE ROAD. IN RETROSPECT, AND COMMON SENSE, I WOULDN'T HAVE LET MY KIDS TRAVEL IN THAT CAR, ON THE NIGHTS WE DID.

WE WERE HALF FROZEN BY TIME WE GOT TO THE RINK. OUR FEET WERE NUMB OR AT LEAST TINGLING, AND IT WASN'T UNTIL WE HIT THE ARENA PARKING LOT, THAT THE HEATER ACTUALLY KICKED IN. EVEN PARKED RIGHT IN FRONT, YOU COULD, ON MANY OCCASIONS, JUST MAKE OUT THE ROOF LINE OF THE OLD BUILDINGS WE HAD TO PLAY IN. NOW, I MUST NOTE HERE, THAT MY DAD WAS AN EXCELLENT DRIVER, AND AS A FORMER TORONTO CABBIE, HE WAS NO STRANGER TO ADVERSE CIRCUMSTANCES ON THE ROAD. HE HAD ALSO DRIVEN A LAUNDRY TRUCK AND A HEARSE IN HIS YOUTH. THE POOR GUY WAS EXHAUSTED AFTER A LONG DAY AT WORK, AND FACING THIS KIND OF DRIVE BEFORE DINNER, WASN'T TOO MUCH FUN FOR HIM. NEVER HAD AN ACCIDENT, AND TO MY KNOWLEDGE, NEVER LEFT THE ROADWAY FOR MORE THAN A COUPLE OF MILES. THE PASSENGER RIDING SHOT-GUN HAD TO OCCASIONALLY PUT HIS HEAD OUT THE WINDOW TO CHECK FOR OTHER LANDMARKS, SO WE'D KNOW HOW CLOSE OR FAR AWAY, WE STILL WERE FROM THE ARENA. YOU COULD GET A NASTY CASE OF FROZEN FACE THIS WAY.

The real problem of those old arenas, was that the wicked cold inside, meant your already frozen feet were going to stay frozen. In fact, it was always argued, that these natural ice palaces were about ten degrees colder inside than out, and as I've mentioned in previous blogs on this subject, I watched pucks shatter hitting the boards. So you got cold in the car, and stayed cold until you got back home. There was a hiatus, of course, in the subject arena's dressing room. I can't remember if it was Port Carling, or Bala, but the dressing room was on the second floor of the lobby portion, and there was a stove-pipe that came through the centre of the room. By time we got there, it was almost red hot, and it was close to the wood benches. So in a small room, with at least one goalie, …..sometimes two, and twelve or more players trying to get dressed, trying to avoid that stove pipe was almost impossible. Then it was like a pinball game. You'd touch your arm or back to the pipe, and jump forward, hitting someone else, and like dominoes, there were a lot of distressed hockey players on the floor. And it's true, our skin left on the stove pipe did smell like roast chicken.

Coming down that flight of stair with skates on, was something to behold, especially for a goalie. The starting goalie had to hit the ice first. It was a hockey convention. But when there was nothing in front of me, on that trip down, geez, I hit that ice on the tumble almost every time. No way to start a hockey game. Now if there were two goalies, I was going to be the back-up. Now the problem here, and I was okay with not getting the crap beat out of me…..as our team wasn't that great….was that my feet would already be half-frozen, because the skates had been nicely chilled on the way to the game. So by about the end of the first period, there wasn't a dry eye on the bench. My feet were frozen, the others were almost frozen. As there was no intermission between the first and second periods, it was like the wailers in a funeral procession, by time the bell went to end the period. Here were these tough hockey playing kids, crying their eyes out because their toes were stinging with frost. We might have been sweating on the upper level, from end to end play, but down below, by golly, it was like wearing wooden skates with popsicles stuck inside.

So we had about fifteen minutes to whip off the skates, and warm them by the stovepipe. Can you imagine a chorus of scorched cats. We went from crying somewhat, to crying while screaming, as the return of circulation then became the most painful part of the warming-up experience. By time I undid my goalie pads, to get my skates off, I got about two minutes of warmth before it was time to suit-up again. Now while we never let on how much frozen toes hurt, such that the opposition would sense our vulnerabilities, there was no way of preventing the hollering, when a slapshot would careen off my toe…..or any of our frozen toes adhered to leather, anchoring those silver blades. Getting through that third period was tough. When you looked down our bench, there was more bobbing and weaving than at a boxing reunion. Even the coach was dancing in pain. When I mentioned to a friend, Bruce Reville, who remembered some of those old rinks, that I always wanted to do a book about the old natural ice arenas, I also had to admit that I wouldn't be able to provide much in the way of architectural recollection…..because I was always so bloody cold, and whisked in and out, on and off the ice, that I really didn't get much of a chance to study where I was playing. Now it's also true, that all the games weren't played at minus 40, and there were some games that our feet weren't seriously frozen until the halfway mark of the third period. But I never paid as much attention to the interesting attributes of each facility, as I should have…..and would have relished, as memories today.

We'd take our skates off after the game, put our ice-block feet up to the fire or stove pipe, and there would only be a slight whimper by this point. They were numb and there was a real danger burning the skin because we couldn't feel the intensity of the heat. We would find out in a wee bit, just how the thawing process, on human flesh, titillates the senses. Now folks, if you've ever suffered the horrible sting of thawing skin, well, here's what happened in our car. As the heater would fail on the way to the game, it went on overdrive during the trip home. The car would become hot, and no matter what Ed did to control it, that little heater turned the car into an oven. And with that uncontrolled heat, even with the window down, our feet began to thaw. Fast. We bit hard into our gloves, said "Jesus," over and over, as if begging for relief. So we cried all the way home, and most vowed to never, ever play hockey again…….at least until the next game.

The old natural ice arenas served a great recreational purpose, and I loved them. I just didn't like the pain associated with the Muskoka winter, and a cold bench, in a really frigid tin arena. When I tell my boys about those away games, they can't imagine the conditions, and it shows with the smirks I get in return. Poor old Ed's feet were just as cold, but he was an old sailor after all, who had been on a frigate in the North Atlantic during the winter…..and he never cried. Just drove faster to get back home. Merle would already have a shot of brandy ready for him, one foot-fall inside the door.

There are times, even today, that sitting here and listening to the snow pellets hitting the window, that my toes will all of a sudden start to tingle, as if……well, history is repeating. I loved hockey in all its forms, but the frozen toes……not so much fun.

I remember telling this story to my father-in-law, Norman Stripp, one Christmas here at Birch Hollow, and he leaned back in the chair, looked at me as if I had never known a real game of Canadian hockey in my life. That's when he bent my ear, about the times the Windermere lads braved questionable ice, and merciless blizzards, to cross Lake Rosseau, against a booming sub-zero wind, just to play the Port Carling lads, in a Christmas season grudge match, on a windswept open rink…..carved into the snowscape of a frozen Muskoka Lake. No roof, no protection from the elements, no stove or stove-pipe. Possibly a wee flask of the good stuff, just to cut the edge. I didn't doubt him. His skin was as weathered as the old goalie pads, hung up in the recreation room for posterity. I've seen pictures of their open-air games, so there would be no refuting what may have seemed a tall-tall tale. I listened, felt that familiar tingle in my toes (from the experiences hockey had provided), and paid my respects to the legends of old time hockey.

When friends ask me why I hobble-about these days, one leg having a will of its own, I tell them about the days I used to cross the frozen lake, from Windermere to Port Carling, for those old Christmas grudge matches….and the cold and hard fought games, played havoc on my body. If they are suspicious of my age, and that I might have done something right out of the annals of Canadian hockey history, in only half a century, I tell them, "Hey, it's because of the good and Christian lifestyle I've lived!!!! I wink of course, and offer a silent apology to Norman, God rest his soul, for stealing his hockey story.

Merry Christmas.

CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBRIDGE -

I WISH YOU COULD HAVE SEEN IT - BUT LET ME TAKE YOU FOR A WALK DOWNTOWN ANYWAY - FROM MY VINTAGE OF 1967 OR SO - JUST WHAT CAN YOU SEE FROM A BARBER SHOP WINDOW?

YES I CAN. I DON'T NEED MUCH EXERTION OF RECALL, TO PUT MYSELF BACK IN BILL ANDERSON'S BARBERSHOP, SITUATED ON THE CORNER OF WHAT WAS THEN, THOMAS STREET AND MANITOBA……A TINY OIL PAINT / HAIR TONIC SCENTED SHOP, IN THE OLD PATTERSON HOTEL…..FORMERLY OF COURSE THE QUEEN'S HOTEL. IT WAS ANY THIRD SATURDAY OF A MONTH. THAT'S WHEN MY MOTHER MERLE, TUCKED A BIT OF PAPER MONEY INTO MY SHIRT POCKET, AND TOLD ME TO GET DOWN TO SEE BILL ANDERSON FOR A HAIRCUT. WHILE OTHER YOUNG LADS OF MY VINTAGE, WOULD COME UP WITH A WHOLE BUNCH OF IDEAS AGAINST, AND FEIGN ILLNESS RATHER THAN WASTING TIME ON A SATURDAY SITTING IN A BARBER SHOP, I LOVED TO SEE BILL IN HIS, WELL, ART STUDIO. REALLY. IT WAS WHERE HE DID SOME OF HIS WELL KNOWN MUSKOKA LANDSCAPES. A WELL TRAVELLED AND ACCOMPLISHED ARTIST, BILL ANDERSON COULD ALSO CUT A LAD'S HAIR……SUCH THAT NO ONE, AND I MEAN NO ONE MADE FUN OF IT IN THE SCHOOL YARD. AT VIRTUALLY THE SAME TIME, I'M PRETTY SURE, THOUGH I NEVER ACTUALLY SAW SCISSORS AND PAINTBRUSH AT WORK SIMULTANEOUSLY, HE COULD HAVE DONE IT WITH OUTSTRETCHED ARMS AND THE SENSORY PERCEPTION OF THE ARTIST/ BARBER. HERE'S HOW IT WORKED.

THERE WAS ALWAYS AN EASLE WITH A PAINTBOARD IN THE CORNER OF THIS BARBER SHOP. THERE WAS A TEA KETTLE, A TEA POT, AND A CUP. NOT FOR ME. FOR THE ARTIST-BARBER. THE FUNNIEST THING TO ME, WAS WHEN BILL WOULD BE TRIMMING MY HAIR, OR SOMEONE ELSE'S (AS I SAT AWAITING MY TURN), AND HE'D STOP IN HIS TRACKS, LOOK AT THE EASLE, AND JUMP FROM THE TASK AT HAND, TO ADDING SOMETHING TO THE ART PANEL. MAYBE A BIT OF WHITE TO A CLOUD THAT LOOKED TOO DARK, OR A BIT MORE BLUE WHERE THE LAKE LOOKED A LITTLE TOO GREEN WITH REFLECTION. I NEVER ONCE HEARD BILL OFFER AN APOLOGY FOR ABANDONING MY HAIR, SO HE COULD FINE TUNE HIS ART WORK. I WAS FASCINATED, AND BY GOLLY, I WOULD HAVE PAID HIM JUST FOR THE PLEASURE OF WATCHING HIM DABBLE AT THE SUBJECT LANDSCAPE.

Heck, Bill would stop and make himself a cup of tea, if the mood struck, and it didn't really matter if he was finished my hair or not. He didn't look like a particularly relaxed human being, but anyone who sat in his shop for any length of time, couldn't help but be calmed by his demeanor; and of course, handiwork about the head (mine for example), or jumping back and forth from palette and brush, to application. I figure, during my youth, I probably watched him work on twenty or more landscapes in that tiny corner barber shop. Now think of this. Just down Manitoba Street, toward the silver bridge, was the pharmacist-artist Bob Everett. On top of the Queen's Hill, there was a painter-gas jockey, by the name of Ross Smith, a fine landscape artist who was also a school chum. He'd pump your gas, take the money, and sit back down to a small painting he was working on, just inside the station. He had a lot of sudden art admirers when folks came into the office to pay. He painted a lot of Muskoka landscape, particularly around the Camel Lake area, where there was a family cottage. I have a Ross Smith original in my livingroom today, and I wouldn't part with it! It was a custom order, you might say. I helped him correct his spelling on university essays, and he painted a small landscape I had wanted.

Leading up to the Christmas season, the downtown shops of lower Manitoba Street fascinated me. I'd leave Anderson's Barber Shop and slip next door to see Mrs. Green, in her gift shop. She always had a small quantity of models and games that I liked to see…..and imagine what my very next allowance could afford. Then I'd amble south, across the Thomas Street intersection, to Elliott's five and dime store, where I could spend considerable time watching the gold fish swim about, and the budgies hop from bar to bar in the giant cages. I loved the Dinky Car and Corgi displays, and the toy section, while not huge, seemed gigantic to a kid who'd seldom been to a large department store. At Christmas, I was picking out my gifts and store owner, Bill Elliott gave me all the time and room I needed to make a decision. He had a great compassion for us dreamer-kids, and I was never once, chased out of that store for not having money jangling in my pocket. He looked at us kids as good future investments, and that when we did get part-time jobs, or professions in the future, we'd return the favor he afforded us for so many years.

I'd go across the street to the Thomas Company, to buy my mother Merle a pretty china cup and saucer, for Christmas, and I remember joining my dad one Saturday, before Christmas, when we went into Thatcher Studios, and bought two busts of her favorite composers…..the head of Bach and one of Beethoven. They would be given as presents, to Merle, and would come to adorn the cabinet stereo they bought from Banks Brothers T.V and Audio, also a wonderful business on that storied main street. There was the smell of freely made chelsea buns from Waites Bakery, and the greasy aroma of freshly made french fries from either Irma's Restaurant or the Muskoka Restaurant……or the Top Hat, if you were far enough down the street. If you happened into Ecclestone's Hardware, or Myers Brothers Hardware, Brooks Drug Store, or Everett's, there were always congregations of friends, family and neighbors, the same ones who had just finished shopping at Lorne's Marketeria…..where I was enthralled by the old building, the grand advertising posters and cardboard cut-outs, and the fact we would opt for next day delivery, if we shopped on a payday…..the Friday night when Manitoba Street was bustling. Did I mention the wheel of old cheese I used to lust for, down at Muskoka Trading, or the bike accessories we longed for, at BB Auto. I'd be standing with the old-timers at the Downtown Garage, one moment, with the Hillman lads, to then running along the rail platform of the train station……sitting on the parking rail, for a time, to see who would get tossed out, by the seat of their pants, from the former Albion Hotel. I saw a lot of incredible summersaults out that front door, let me tell you…..and watched most of the disgraced patrons, take a second and third run at getting back in. Some were more successful than others.

I might be in the newly opened children's section of the Bracebridge Public Library, for awhile, or sitting on the window ledge of the Uptown Garage for a visit with Ross, and then spend some quality time, as an on-duty rink rat, for arena Manager Doug Smith, who paid us for shoveling the ice, with snack-bar credits. My favorite was a hot dog and Coke. I'd have about eight of them in a day. When I did wind-up at the arena, it was never for a short visit. My dad always knew where to find me on Saturday afternoon, around this time of the year. I sure as heck didn't need dinner when I got home. That made my mother crazy.

As I walk along Manitoba Street, on pre-Christmas days like this, I can't help myself. I fall back into that splendid, harmless nostalgia, that so splendidly rekindles those carefree days, when we roamed and lived, and played, and well, played some more. I miss seeing folks like Russ Salmon leading a Manitoba Street hockey talk, or seeing Bill Elliott shoveling off the walk in front of the store. I want to look at that corner block of the former Patterson Hotel, and see Bill Anderson standing in the doorway, with a cup of tea in his hand. I can hear the high pitched voice of Randy Carswell, an old chum, chatting with friends on the steps of the post office, talking about the hockey scores of the night before….and then seeing Fred "Bing" Crosby, our hockey coach, walking to the arena with skates hung over his shoulder, and his toque leaning a little to the right…..dusted with just enough snow that he looked wintry. Harold Frow might be standing outside his Muskoka Trading grocery store, and you might see Redmond Thomas, Q.C. in a gray overcoat, making his way to the arena, to watch a Saturday hockey game, or see Tommy Halliday ambling over to his boarding house on the corner of Dominion and Manitoba Streets, with a newspaper tucked under his arm……he needed to know the sports scores, in case Randy had heard them wrong. I can still see Father Mitchell, of St. Thomas Church walking through the snow of Memorial Park, from his home to St. Thomas Church, and watch the brothers of the Society of St. John The Evangelist, in their long black gowns, walk up the hill to the post office, next to the library, the black fabric bags to be loaded with the mail of the day…….and then walk back up Hunt's Hill, as mysterious silhouettes, to the "House on the Hill," their religious retreat.

In street corner scrums, the talk of the day might have been about Roger Crozier, the hometown boy who had made it big in the National Hockey League, or about that young rascal Paul Rimstead, working as a writer for the dailies in Toronto…….what about the fine work of music composer, director, Howard Cable, who had bestowed the honor of composing music for the annual Winter Carnival. And of course there were the usual political debates that were never quite resolved, but always entertaining to over-hear. It was all pretty good natured, and part of the culture of small town life. Just as town police officer Rod White might have said to me……"Teddy, your dad's looking for you……it's time to go home." Before I'd get down that short stretch of Manitoba Street, that refrain would play over and over. Butch Ecclestone might remind me the same, as would Mr. Shier of BB Auto, or Bill Elliot (my mother worked at his store), and even Bill Anderson, if he saw me dawdling at dinner time, just as he was closing shop. No, I can't help but get a little misty-eyed about what has been and gone of a neat main street. You know, I can still see my mother Merle, walking with a noticeable limp, with my two wee lads in tow, hand-in-hand, on a snowy winter night, as this…..so many years ago. I have a great span of memories in this town, and of course some regrets, that many citizens here have no idea what it was like……..when the shop-keeps here knew every kid by their first name…..and family name, and when you could get hauled aside, without warning, to "take a loaf of bread to you mother Ted. She just called, and figured you be by sooner or later." That might have come from personnel at the grocery store or the bakery. "Pay me later," they'd say.

I know the past is what it is, and that "time waits for no man." But the great privilege of the imaginative time traveller, is to recall again, those grand days of the old town, in that faded sepia tone of album photographs. The voices are distant, and tinny, with an echo of all the years past……the hands outstretched, still too far apart to connect in greeting, of one time to another……the sound of the daily trains, the chimes of the clock tower, the horns and worn-out truck mufflers echoing in the winter air. I will always see those wonderful old ghosts, and ponder if they see me too.

Congratulations Bracebridge on a magnificent light show, in the neighborhood trees, in celebration of the Christmas season, on the historic, oh so familiar main street. To a sentimental old fool, it is a beautiful walk, down a full to overflowing memory lane.

If you need to rekindle, well, this is the place to do so!!!!

CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBRIDGE -

1927 COOKBOOK WORTH EVERY PENNY - ANGLICAN CHURCH WOMEN'S FUNDRAISER - TIME OF THE OPENING FOR THE RED CROSS HOSPITAL

THE ASKING PRICE FOR THE 1927 RING-BOUND COPY OF THE 1927 BRACEBRIDGE COOKBOOK, WAS WORTH EVERY NICKEL AND MORE. THE 1927 BRACEBRIDGE ANGLICAN CHURCH WOMEN'S COOKBOOK WILL BE ADDED TO THE EARLIER WOMENS PATRIOTIC LEAGUE COOKBOOK WE ALREADY HAVE IN OUR COLLECTION, PLUS SEVERAL OTHERS THAT TRULY MAKE IT NOW A "COLLECTION IN PROGRESS." I HAVE INCLUDED A COUPLE OF GRAPHICS OF THE OLD COOKBOOK, THAT I WILL BE DETAILING IN GREATER DEPTH ON MY MUSKOKA HERITAGE RECIPES BLOG THIS WEEK. I HAVE BEGUN A CAMPAIGN TO PRESERVE THESE RELICS FOR PUBLIC CONSUMPTION, AS THEY ARE NOT ITEMS LOCAL HISTORIANS FIND PARTICULARLY APPEALING. DON'T GET ME WRONG, THEY ARE VALUED AS PART OF THE HISTORY OF THE COMMUNITY, BUT TUCKED, FOR SAFE KEEPING, IN SOME ACID-FREE PACKAGING, IN SOME VERY CLEAN, SELDOM OPENED ARCHIVAL BOX FEW PEOPLE WILL EVER SEE AGAIN……UNLESS YOU SHOULD HAVE A SPECIFIC REQUEST, AND THE PUBLIC LIBRARY HAD SUCH AN ITEM IN THEIR MUSKOKA COLLECTION. WE ARE A LITTLE MORE GONZO ABOUT THIS MATERIAL, AND HAVE EMBARKED ON A CAMPAIGN TO SHOW-OFF OUR FINDS, AND LET YOU HAVE A GLIMPSE AT WHAT, FOR POSTERITY'S SAKE, HAS BEEN TRADITIONALLY HOUSED IN CONSERVATION-BOXES, STACKED ON SHELVES WITH VERY CLEAN DUST BUNNIES……BUT NOT FOR PUBLIC ENJOYMENT. MY RESEARCH PARTNER, SUZANNE AND I, WANT TO CHANGE THIS IN OUR TWO FAVORITE MUSKOKA TOWNS…..BRACEBRIDGE, AND GRAVENHURST…..AND WINDERMERE WHERE SUZANNE HAS HER REGIONAL ROOTS. THIS IS THE BEGINNING OF A LITTLE ADVENTURE FOR US……AS WE INTEND TO HUNT FOR NEW HISTORIC DISCOVERIES, TO OFFER READERS INSIGHTS ABOUT ITEMS, PHOTOGRAPHS, NEWS THEY DIDN'T KNOW ABOUT, IN THEIR PLACE OF RESIDENCE, OR AT LEAST, THE PLACE WHERE MEMORIES WERE MADE.

SO FOR A START, YOU WILL BE ABLE TO GET MORE IMAGES OF THE COOKBOOK LATER THIS COMING WEEK, BY CLICKING ON TO http://muskokavintagerecipes.blogspot.com/

SECONDLY, I WANT TO TELL YOU A STORY…..THAT I DUG-UP YEARS AGO, THAT WILL LIKELY NEVER MAKE IT TO PRINT ANY OTHER WAY…….THAT INVOLVES THE BRACEBRIDGE VOLUNTEER FIRE DEPARTMENT, AND A NEWSPAPER STRINGER BY THE NAME OF PAUL RIMSTEAD. JUST AS THE DEPARTMENT AND THE TOWN CARRY ON WORK TO RE-ESTABLISH A NEW FIRE HALL FOR THE COMMUNITY, THE RIMSTEAD STORY SHOULD BE ONE THAT IS CARRIED ON……AS IMPORTANT TO THE APPRECIATION OF WHAT WE HAVE BEEN AS A COMMUNITY……NOT JUST THE BARE FACTS, BUT THE REALLY NEAT ANECDOTES, OF WHICH THERE ARE A BILLION. SO HERE GOES:

THE WRONG DIRECTION - ON PURPOSE - THE PESKY KID ON THE BIKE CHASING FIRE TRUCKS

FIRST OF ALL, THIS STORY HAS A NUMBER OF DIFFERENT VERSIONS, AND I'VE HEARD ABOUT THREE DISTINCTLY DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVES. MY CONCERN IS THAT, BECAUSE IT HASN'T REALLY GOT THE HISTORICAL MERIT TO INSPIRE LOCAL AUTHORS TO INCLUDE THE STORY IN THEIR HERITAGE TOMES, THIS WONDERFUL ANECDOTE WILL BE LOST…..AS THOSE DIRECTLY CONNECTED TO ITS ORAL TELLING, ARE FEWER THESE DAYS, BECAUSE OF THE DEATH OF THOSE WHO HAD FIRST HAND KNOWLEDGE OF THE EVENT. WHILE IT ISN'T A STAGGERINGLY IMPORTANT PIECE OF LOCAL HISTORY, IT DOES FALL INTO THE FORUM OF HUMAN INTEREST MATERIAL. I THINK YOU'LL AGREE, IT WOULD BE A SHAME TO LOSE THIS STORY. THIS VERSION IS THE RESULT OF THREE SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT VERSIONS AMALGAMATED INTO ONE.

Paul Rimstead was one of Canada's most popular columnists. His column in the Toronto Sun, (AS WELL AS OTHER WESTERN CANADIAN SUN PRODUCTS) jettisoned him to great popularity amongst average folk, leading average lives, on an average or below wage……and who could genuinely relate to the foibles "Rimmer" got up to in any given day, of any week, any year. Without intending to, he became an advocate for all the folks who considered themselves "ordinary," and well, downtrodden. By presenting his life as an open book, from re-counting what led to necessary rectal surgery, to what built the road to divorce, a drinking problem, to financial woes, readers saw in him, a beacon of hope……a compassion and acceptance that commonplace was pretty darn interesting, if you pool it all together, and share stories with those thinking their misfortune is greater than anyone else's. I never remember a time, in my life anyway, when it was actually cool to have shit hit the fan. Paul Rimstead wrote about it, and over time, it was a refreshing new normal, that captivated those of us…..who thought we had the market cornered on "screwing up," living too hard, and being less than serious about tokens of exchange….like having money. In his company, we felt that our problems were pretty small, and even the big ones, were just part of the great life adventure in these modern times.

I won't go into huge detail about the man's life because others have documented it so much better than I could……as I didn't have the same exposure to the man, as they did, working within the domain of Rimstead……which could be an explosively exciting place to be. Rimmer wrote the book, "Cocktails and Jockstraps," and after his death, his friends and colleagues presented a fitting memorial tribute, a book of reminiscences entitled "Dammit Rimstead." Both are fabulous books and can be found by doing an online search of out-of-print book sellers, such as through the collective of the Advance Book Exchange.

Paul went to Bracebridge High School, and was a co-editor of The Beatrice Bugle, a small publishing project from the family home on the Beatrice Town Line, north of Bracebridge. From a young age, he was a newsy and there was every sign, Rimmer had somehow got ink in his blood…..and would be forever influenced by it coursing through his veins. I once had a pressman at The Herald-Gazette tell me, as a new editor, "You're going to get printer's ink in the blood Ted." It actually meant, that being involved in the writing profession, and publishing as an outcome, spelled out clearly that, "once in, it's game over…..you're a writer in residence until you die." I thought the guy was just kidding about this. I knew what he meant. I didn't have to drink a quart of ink to be infected. Rather, it came about as a matter of keen interest…….like watching the magic of a printing press stamping the ink onto a blank page. I was hooked easily because I had no will to avoid it……Rimstead had found the allure many years earlier…..but at the same school. We also shared our dislike for school studies.

So here is this print-absorbed kid, looking to writing as a potential future career. Keep in mind that about 1 in 10,000 kids would have answered "reporter" if asked by a teacher back then. Well, this one in ten thousand kid, was able to convince the Orillia Packet and Times newspaper, to give him a chance as a "stringer" for their publication. Being a stringer meant, gathering news tips and following up with stories fit to print. You're not considered a staffer, but it is a place to plant the seed for the future. Many of the best known journalists began with this fledgling relationship, and blossomed after a few years on the news hustings. Rimstead's choice, was to cover breaking-news on the community front…..such as finding his way to fires and accidents. I'm told he even had a "Press" card hung off the handlebars of this bike……the one he used to chase after emergency vehicles. I'm pretty sure he had a camera, but he most certainly had a note pad.

I guess the captain of the fire department wasn't particularly happy, to look in the rear-view mirror, to see this teenage news-hound hustling behind. While obviously they could ditch him, by speed alone, he had secure knowledge the department was heading to a particular address, or highway location to deal with an emergency. When a fire call came in, one of the firefighters used a chalk board at the hall (in the old town hall across from the present station) to record relevant information, so that when other volunteers arrived at the hall….or after the trucks had left, they knew where to drive within the community. So Rimstead would go into the hall, mostly undetected, and head out to where the emergency had occurred. It happened quite a few times, and the fire brigade was unhappy about this pesky kid getting under foot. It was a time when media relations hadn't quite matured, as we think of it today, where everyone seems to have a camera-phone to capture actuality.

What happened was that the fire captain(s) decided to mis-direct "Scoop" and put false information on the chalkboard. All the firefighters knew about a secondary message board that had the correct address, so they wouldn't go the wrong way……just the kid on the bike. I guess it happened a few times before Rimmer figured out they were purposely misdirecting him to locations far from harm's way. The firefighters didn't want Paul to get hurt, and considering he wasn't a news staffer with any real clout with editorial, they didn't look on their misdirections as injurious to the youngster's ambitions…..but it did keep him from getting too close to structure fires and major, multi-vehicle accidents.

Maybe it did have an influence. He had running battles with most authority figures, including his newspaper bosses, and he found his niche not in front line news reporting, but in human interest stories, and in those precious day-to-day living columns, that made him famous. He was a great source of inspiration to many fledgling writers in this country, because he told us what to expect of the profession we had chosen…….and he taught us about the dangers of taking ourselves too seriously…..as it would sap our capability of enjoying one of the best careers on earth……being a writer.

Just thought you might be interested in this wee bit of Bracebridge history.

CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBRIDGE -

THOMAS BLOCK FIRE WAS THE BIGGEST, MOST FRIGHTENING - CALAMITOUS TOWN EVENT I HAD EVER COVERED - NO ONE PERISHED - THANKFULLY

BY THE TIME I SQUISHED MY BEHIND DOWN INTO THAT EDITOR'S CHAIR, OF THE HERALD-GAZETTE, (BACK IN THE EARLY 1980'S), IT WOULD HAVE TAKEN THE JAWS OF LIFE TO SPARE THE CHAIR. FROM MY FIRST YEARS OF UNIVERSITY, I SET MY SIGHTS ON BEING A FUTURE EDITOR. IT TOOK A WHILE, AND SOME HUSTLING TO PROVE MY WORTH, BUT I FINALLY ACHIEVED MY GOAL. I WAS THE BOSS. I HAD THE CHAIR AND DESK TO PROVE IT. DID ANYBODY GIVE A RAT'S ARSE? JUST THE PUBLISHER. HE WANTED ME TO EARN MY KEEP, MOTIVATE THE STAFF, AND CO-OPERATE WITH THE TOUGH COOKIES IN THE PRODUCTION DEPARTMENT. MOST OF ALL, HE DIDN'T WANT TO GET A/ SUED, B/ VOID OF ADVERTISING.

WHEN I DID MAKE MY WAY TO THIS STATION IN LIFE, I HAD EXPERIENCED A PRETTY GOOD WORK-OUT ON THE LOCAL NEWS SCENE, STRETCHING FROM THE TOWNSHIP OF GEORGIAN BAY, MUSKOKA LAKES, AND BRACEBRIDGE. GRAVENHURST WAS STILL IN RANGE, BUT IT WOULD BE YEARS, AND A CHANGE OF EDITOR'S CHAIR BEFORE I BEGAN COVERING ITS MUNICIPAL COUNCIL, AND THE LOCAL BEAT. AS FOR HAVING COVERED ACCIDENT AND FIRE SCENES, I'D CUT MY TEETH ON SOME REAL DANDIES, AND DESPITE THE PROMOTION, I WOULD FOB-OFF AN ACCIDENT OR FIRE CALL ON ANYONE ELSE IN THAT NEWSROOM. MY CONSTITUTION WAS NOT SUITED TO THE KIND OF SCENES FIRST RESPONDERS HAD TO DEAL WITH. IF THERE WAS NO CHOICE, NO ONE TO HAND THE CAMERA TO, I DID WHAT WAS REQUIRED TO JUSTIFY THE PURPOSE OF OUR "NEWS" PAPER. I GOT MY WOBBLY KNEES JUST HEARING THE COMMUNITY FIRE SIREN, OR THE SCANNER WE KEPT IN THE OFFICE FOR EMERGENCY CALLS.

ON THIS BITTERLY COLD WINTER MORNING, SHORTLY AFTER CHRISTMAS-FESTIVITIES, THE CALL CAME OVER THE SCANNER ABOUT A FIRE AT A BUILDING ON MANITOBA STREET, AT CHANCERY LANE. I KNEW IT AS THE THOMAS COMPANY BUILDING, WITH LEGAL OFFICE UPSTAIRS, JUST BEHIND THE HERALD-GAZETTE BUILDING ON DOMINION STREET. I WOULD LATER THAT DAY, BE ABLE TO STAND OUT ON THE ROOF OF THE HERALD BUILDING, TO WATCH THE PROGRESS OF THE FIRE.

EVERY REPORTER WE HAD WAS CALLED OUT TO COVER THIS BREAKING NEWS EVENT. WHILE TWO PHOTOGRAPHERS HEADED DOWN CHANCERY LANE, TO GET SOME FRONT SHOTS OF THE BUILDING, I STOOD AT THE TOP OF THE LANE, JUST BEHIND THE FORMER BRACEBRIDGE TOWN HALL, BECAUSE I NOTICED A LOT OF SMOKE COMING FROM VENTS AT THE SIDE. I TOOK SOME SHOTS DOWN THE SLOPE OF THE LANE, CONNECTING TO THE MAIN STREET, AND SAW A FIRE CAPTAIN I KNEW AT THE BASE. WHEN STAFF FROM THE LEGAL OFFICE OPENED THE SIDE DOOR TO ESCAPE THE BUILDING, THE GLASS IN THE STOREFRONT BELOW, BLEW OUT, THE BURST OF AIR, TOSSING THE FIREMAN ARSE OVER TEA KETTLE, INTO THE ROADWAY. I GOT A SHOT BUT THE SMOKE GOT IN THE WAY OF A CLEAR IMAGE. THE SAME HAPPENED FOR THE PHOTOGRAPHERS BELOW, WHO, AT THAT POINT, DIDN'T KNOW HOW SERIOUS THE FIRE HAD BECOME IN MY ZONE. THE CUSTOMERS AND STAFF HAD JUST GOT OUT OF THE WAY IN THE KNICK OF TIME, BEFORE THE WINDOW EXPLODED.

FROM THIS POINT, INDEED, ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE.

The fire had been manifesting for some time before, inching through the openings above the numerous false ceilings in the store. Somehow, as I had been witnessing, the smoke was venting to the side, not the front, and it had not reached a serious degree of burn, until that morning's store opening. When the front and side doors were opened for customers and clients,I suppose it was acting as a sort bellows on the flames. Customers reported feeling very hot in the store, but the smoke wasn't an issue. It was exciting the building, in a less than obvious place.

After the window blew…..and we saw the fireman had escaped serious injury, I tried to talk to the business owner who was in shock at the time. I chased him up the lane, away from the fire, to get one or two sentences to use……as with events like this, print reporters were often asked to do "voicers" for regional radio and television stations. That's when I noticed the shards of glass that had injured his rear end…..obviously from the explosion at the front of the building. I left the rest to his son…..but it looked painful.

I'd never seen a fire accelerate like this one. It was obvious the fire had gotten into the nooks and crannies, enough to make it twice as difficult for firemen to douse. Within minutes of that window being blown out, the mood changed big-time. Spectators were fleeing and there were sirens everywhere. As we all know about these downtown fires, along the traditional, historic main streets in Bracebridge and Gravenhurst, it couldn't possibly be a simple, one building fire. It was the test to see if there were any firewalls between the old structures. I'm not sure now just how many of the buildings were gutted, but that it stopped before it hit Thatcher Studio. I'm pretty confident it affected three businesses, a medical office, and a law office upstairs. Fortunately no one was seriously injured. Emotional trauma. There was lots of that…..especially when, as historical record in Muskoka towns has documented, you could literally lose the downtown during one out-of-control fire event. There were a lot of gut-wrenching, nervous moments for all stake holders that day.

What was the saving grace, if memory serves, was that a "Tele-squirt" aerial firetruck was loaned by the Fire College, in Gravenhurst, which effectively stopped the progression from consuming other vulnerable buildings. It knocked the flames down, and gave firemen on the ground a better chance of stopping the carnage from heading north, or south, or even leaping west across Manitoba Street. The deep freeze made it a most unfortunate situation for firemen, who were quickly exhausted, carrying around ice on their backs and arms. The cold air and smoke made it hard for everyone to breathe, working on the ground level of the multi-building fire. I can remember spectators who had crept closer and closer over the long day, finding jewelry washing down the road from the shop. Rings were being found frozen in the ice for days after the event.

What had begun at about mid-morning, had carried on through the night….and I remember looking down on the fire scene, from the roof of The Herald-Gazette, and it appearing the mouth of a volcano. There was no roof structure left. Just an expansive, threatening, wavering glow in the sub-zero night air. As we said over and over again that day and night….and for the next week, "at least no one was injured." And you know, the owners of the property, rebuilt the structures that seemed beyond repair….and you can visit them today…..and see no evidence of that great winter fire, of once.

Over the past year, we've had several major fires in downtown Gravenhurst, and although I'm not employed as a reporter any longer, I still got those wobbly knees, and churning stomach, that always went along with the territory. I watched those fire fighters tackle that blaze, with the prowess I recall seeing so many times in the past. On both fires, I saw the terrible odds they were facing….old buidlings, many renovations in the past, all kinds of nooks and crannies for a fire to hide, and the looks of sincere regret……on their faces…..that they couldn't do more to stop the disaster in its tracks. No one can tell me, after my own years of experience covering accidents and fires, that first responders are void of emotion at times of crisis……just because they're used to difficult circumstances. No, they're mortal, and they wish for a better outcome from their efforts. Some times it just isn't possible, and I've identified this, from my own experience, in two recent Gravenhurst blogs.

I heard a smart ass, at the first downtown fire, back in the spring, say "Yup, they haven't lost a foundation yet!" Insensitive bastard.

As a wee footnote to this blog, I remember reporting on a side-bar story, of the fire that claimed Windermere House, a few years back. It was about the emotional state of a few of the firefighters, one who had been in tears, because, in some way, he felt that losing the building was the brigade's fault……that a landmark was lost because they couldn't beat the flames back. Do you think I'm blowing smoke. Tell me then, the last time you heard of a memorial service being held for a building……and for all those who fought the blaze. It was held at the Windermere United Church shortly after the fire, which was begun by the way, during the filming of a Hollywood movie. I was at that service, as my wife is from Windermere. We felt bad for the firemen, that they shouldered responsibility this way….when they had done everything possible to extinguish flames in that very old, very dry resort building. It was clear evidence for me, even though I had seen it in my photographs, showing firemen in action….for years, first responders take it on the chin every time…..and wish there was a positive outcome to each event.

Windermere House was rebuilt, as it was on that promontory, overlooking Lake Rosseau, and it is every bit the historic landmark it once was……but thoroughly modernized. No one had been killed or seriously injured in what could have been much more serious.

As a reporter who shadowed the firefighters of South Muskoka for more than a decade, I have the utmost respect for them, and confidence they will do everything humanly possible to maintain our health and welfare in the event of crisis. But don't think for a minute, they have any choice, about taking their work home with them……and that's something we need to know about their dedication….before we make insensitive comments…….about saving foundations, and such.

Thank you firefighters of Muskoka. Thank you all first responders.