The Eyes of Eckleburg; The Ghosts of Christmas Past in Bracebridge

CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBRIDGE -

THE EYES OF ECKLEBURG - THE CLOCK FACES THAT MARKED OUR HISTORY - A MARRIAGE, BIRTHS, DEATHS, THE MORTAL COIL OF EXPERIENCES

I WILL NEVER FORGET THE STREETSCAPE OF MY OLD HOMETOWN, AS IT APPEARED ON THOSE COLD AND SNOWY DAYS OF CHRISTMASES PAST. COMING OVER THAT RISE OF HUNT'S HILL, LOOKING DOWN INTO THE VALLEY OF THE BLACK RIBBON OF MUSKOKA RIVER, THE LASRGE ILLUMINATED FACES OF THE CLOCK TOWER, ALWAYS MARKED MY TIME IN THAT COMMUNITY. THE FRIENDLY GLOWING FACES OF THE TOWER ON THE OLD FEDERAL BUILDING, ON WHAT WAS IN MY DAY, THE CORNER OF MANITOBA AND THOMAS STREETS…..THE VERY CENTRE OF BRACEBRIDGE'S TRADITIONAL DOWNTOWN.

THE SOFTLY LIT DIALS ATTRACTED MY ATTENTION AT SO MANY POIGNANTLY IMPORTANT TIMES IN MY YOUNG LIFE….MY LIFE AS A PARENT…..AND THEN AS A SENTIMENTAL OLD FART…..LOSING PARENTS. WITHOUT ONCE HAVING TO CONSULT ANOTHER HISTORIAN, OR WRITER-KIND ABOUT THE NUANCES OF SMALL TOWN LIFE AND TIMES, I NAMED THESE CLOCK FACES, THE "EYES OF ECKLEBURG," FROM THE F. SCOTT FITZGERALD NOVEL, "THE GREAT GATSBY." IN THE NOVEL, THE "EYES OF ECKLEBURG" ARE COMPOSED INTO A BILLBOARD ADVERTISEMENT, FOR AN EYE SPECIALIST, I BELIEVE. THE EYES ON THAT BRICK TOWER FOLLOWED ME EVERYWHERE. THERE WERE NO SECRETS, AND I WAS RELIEVED OF EVER TRYING TO DENY HEARTBREAK OR LOVE-SICKNESS IN THEIR MIDST. THEY PENETRATED MY SOUL WHEN I LIED TO MYSELF, THAT I WAS HEALED WHEN I WAS STILL HURTING, LOST, DEPRESSED OR ANXIOUS. AND THERE WAS COMPASSION IN THOSE EYES, NEVER JUDGMENTAL, OR COLDLY IMPOSING; BUT RATHER UNDERSTANDING….AS IF I COULD TALK TO THEM, AND I WOULD BE UNDERSTOOD WITHOUT REQUIRING A RESPONSE…..TO MOVE ON THROUGH THE SNOWY ARTERY TOWARD HOME.

I LIVED A BLOCK OVER THE HUNT'S HILL "HUMP" YOU MIGHT SAY, UP ON ALICE STREET…..THE THREE FLOOR APARTMENT OF WORKING STIFFS, NINE TO FIVERS, WHO LIVED CONTENTLY CHEQUE TO CHEQUE. IT WAS A WORKING CLASS STREET OF OLDER HOMES OF MODEST PROPORTION, SMALL GARDENS AND TINY OUTBUILDINGS PLEASANTLY CLUTTERED BY WHEELBARROWS AND RAKES, AN ARRAY OF SNOW SHOVELS AT THIS TIME OF THE YEAR, AND NEATLY PLOWED LANES TO INSUL-BRICKED ONE-CAR GARAGES. IT WAS AN UNCOMPLICATED NEIGHBORHOOD WITH MODEST WANTS AND NO ONE CARED TO COMPARE HOLDINGS, TO SEE WHICH FAMILY HAD MORE POSSESSIONS THAN THE OTHER.

Every day to school and back, I was in the shadow, of that clock tower. It became my guardian, whether I chose it or not. When I went to play down at the railway station, I could check the time, my mother knowing then I had no excuse to be late for dinner. If I walked a girlfriend home along the tracks, the clock face was at my back. Coming home, in the dark, it was the guide above the rails, watching my progress…..those familiar dials that I took for granted, but recollected constantly…..just as I knew my times by the sound of the train horn off in the distance…..the schedule I used to read off the station chalkboard. I'd look up at those dials, much as a railway-man would yank on the watch fob, to pop the case of his timepiece……and squint to read the hour, and judge the distance of the train horn in the distance.

Over the decades, I marked occasions, by looking up at one of four sides, of the landmark tower, to confirm the time of day, recording with copious mental notes, the prevailing weather conditions. I don't know why it was important, but it was! I can tell you it was snowing just before Christmas when a teenage girlfriend had just given me the heave-ho, and I was shattered. I remember the bitter cold days after this, that I used to walk the same route, hoping that she'd be doing the same thing, and we could mend broken fences. As with many other girlfriends, of that vintage, I found myself out of habit, looking up at the dials, during the day, or the evening, or the very early morning, after closing the local pubs, and being a wee bit tipsy. After Suzanne and I were officially engaged, I made a point of walking her by that brick tower, and looking up into the spring sky, and marking it as the happiest day ever.

When both my sons were born, I left the hospital each time, and drove by that monument of small town ambition quite on purpose, you see…….as we, the clock tower and I, had made a spiritual pact. On each occasion, I said a prayer of thanks for their safe delivery, and a wish that their little lives would be as happy and healthy as mine…..and that we would be a contented family. On every occasion in our family, dating back to the mid 1960's, when my mother and father pulled onto that mainstream for the first time, in a jalopy that fell apart soon after, this place was our sleepy hollow. (The town was actually named after the author of the story, "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," Washington Irving. When Suzanne's parents passed on, I remember, so clearly, the frantic runs to the hospital, and before getting there, taking a glance at the Eyes of Eckleburg, looking for compassion and wisdom, to deal with this crisis. When my own parents passed away, I embraced the soft, timely glow, the same way, and they seemed to well-up as did my own……as we had all been companions, you see, through so much together……but nothing that the historian would care to know, document in those grand tomes on the library shelves; or that the painter would find intriguing to depict. These were private moments, of a glance or two, in passing, and the pondering of this mortal, just how much these Eyes of Eckleburg had seen since the early part of the century. The joy and celebrations, the anxious years of war and Depression, marches of soldiers, the funeral processions, and the wedding motorcades than honked and honked and honked. The Christmas Parades that brought Santa to town.

I never travel to Bracebridge, that I don't look up at those affectionate eyes, that remind me of the times of my life…..and all those around me. I see in those cheerfully illuminated clock dials, the deep reflections of so many friends and neighbors who passed this way in life, and despite the sadness, these eyes may remind the voyeur, standing on that crest of Hunt's Hill, there is still very much the compassion and friendship of the hometown, I knew as a child. In the blowing snow it still manages to strike my heart on the hour, and I half expect to hear my mother's voice, calling out through the storm……to come home, Teddy, it's Christmas Eve.