Bracebridge, Muskoka

2012-01-23T07:03:00.001-08:00

THE WAY WE DON'T LOOK AT HISTORY-

DOES BRACEBRIDGE HAVE AN IDENTITY CRISIS - NOT REALLY - BUT SOME FOLKS THINK DIFFERENTLY - A DEFICIENCY OF CHARACTER? WHO SAYS SO?

I HAVE PARTICIPATED IN THE RECENTLY CIRCULATED SURVEY, REGARDING BRACEBRIDGE'S IDENTITY……AND ITS FUTURE. EVEN THOUGH I'M PRESENTLY DWELLING IN GRAVENHURST, WHERE WE HAVE LIVED FOR NEARLY A QUARTER CENTURY, BRACEBRIDGE IS STILL A CHERISHED HOMETOWN…..WHERE MY FAMILY JOYFULLY ARRIVED, WITH GREAT HOPE AND ASPIRATIONS, BACK IN THE WINTER OF 1966. IT WAS WHERE I MET MY WIFE SUZANNE, A TEACHER AT BRACEBRIDGE AND MUSKOKA LAKES SECONDARY SCHOOL, WHERE MY BOYS ANDREW AND ROBERT WERE BORN, AND WHERE OUR PARENTS, NORM AND HARRIETT STRIPP, AND TED AND MERLE CURRIE PASSED AWAY. I HAVE BEEN A REGIONAL HISTORIAN FOR DECADES, AND I APPRENTICED WITH THE TOWN'S MOST PROMINENT HISTORIAN, ROBERT BOYER. MY OWN SON ROBERT IS NAMED AFTER MR. BOYER, WHO MENTORED ME IN BOTH THE NEWS BUSINESS, WITH THE HERALD-GAZETTE, BUT HELPED ME IN MY EARLY DAYS AS A FLEDGLING HISTORIAN WITH THE NEWLY FORMED BRACEBRIDGE HISTORICAL SOCIETY, AND WOODCHESTER VILLA AND MUSEUM. IF THAT'S NOT ENOUGH, I WAS THE FELLA WHO GAVE THE RINK RATS HOCKEY TEAM ITS NAME, AS WELL AS THE LOVABLE LOSERS HOCKEY TOURNAMENT……NOW LEGENDS IN MY OWN TIME; STILL A BRIGHT LIGHT OF ACCOMPLISHMENT EVEN THOUGH I'VE BEEN RETIRED FOR MOST OF CLUB'S HISTORY NOW. FOR THOSE WHO THINK I DON'T DESERVE THE RIGHT TO COMMENT, I WAS ALSO CURATOR OF THE BRACEBRIDGE SPORTS HALL OF FAME FOR 12 YEARS, A FORMER EDITOR OF THE HERALD-GAZETTE, THE MUSKOKA SUN, AND THE MUSKOKA ADVANCE, ALL PUBLISHED, DURING MY TENURE, IN THAT OLD WHITE STUCCO BUILDING ON DOMINION STREET.

SO I THINK I'VE GOT A RIGHT TO AN OPINION ON THE MATTER OF BRACEBRIDGE'S ENDURING LEGACY AND IDENTITY. IT'S JUST ONE OF THESE MODERN DAY MISSIONS OF DISCOVERY THAT THROWS OUT A WHOLE BUNCH OF QUESTIONS, ABOUT THE TOWN AND TOWN LIFE, AND TOWN ATTRIBUTES, THAT FRANKLY ARE UNNECESSARY FOR ANY ONE WHO HAS LIVED IN THE COMMUNITY MORE THAN A DECADE. I CAN'T IMAGINE BOB BOYER, CHIEF TOWN HISTORIAN, LOOKING AT THESE QUESTIONS AND SUBSEQUENT ANSWERS, FEELING THEY WILL, IN ANY SIGNIFICANT WAY, CREATE FOR POSTERITY, THE CONTEMPORARY TEMPLATE OF WHAT RESPONDENTS WANT BRACEBRIDGE TO BE. AS IS MY GOOD FORTUNE, THE SURVEY ADMINISTRATORS ALLOWED OUTSIDERS TO COMMENT ON THE TOWN IDENTITY THING, AND SO I DID. IT WON'T BE HARD TO FIND MINE IN THE MIX. I'M THE GUY THAT SUGGESTS LEAVING WHAT IS ALREADY SOLID, AND SETTLED, TO SHOULDER THE LOAD FOR THE FUTURE. I'M NOT A STATUS QUO HISTORIAN EITHER, AND IF YOU READ MY PAST BLOGS, YOU'LL KNOW THAT FOR SURE. BUT WHAT BRACEBRIDGE HAS, IS A HISTORY THAT CAN BE MADE CONTEMPORARY IF TOWN COUNCIL EVER DECIDED TO USE WHAT IT ALREADY POSSESSES…..BUT SEEMS AT A LOSS ABOUT HOW TO USE IT. I KEEP NAGGING ON ABOUT THE TOWN'S WASHINGTON IRVING CONNECTION AND IT IS JUST ONE OF THOSE THINGS I CAN'T EXPLAIN……BUT THERE IS NO APPETITE TO ADOPT THIS INTERNATIONALLY REVERED, LITERARY PROVENANCE, OF WHICH THE TOWN IS FULLY ENTITLED TO USE, EXPLOIT, AND FINANCIALLY BENEFIT FROM……YET FOR UNKNOWN REASONS COUNCIL WON'T MAKE ANY EFFORT TO RECOGNIZE WHAT THEY RIGHTFULLY OWN. A CONNECTION TO A GREAT AUTHOR, A HUGE VAULT OF LITERATURE WRITTEN BY THE MAN……AND THE INHERENT RIGHT TO HAVE THE BEST HALLOWE'EN PARTY IN CANADA, WITH CONNECTION TO THE AUTHOR OF "THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW."

Just before the turn of the present century, I had begun work establishing a loose arrangement for future negotiation, with the Washington Irving Museum, at Sunnyside, in New York, and with the Irving societies elsewhere in the United States, thinking that it might be a good network in the future. I had this whacky idea that the town council, the Chamber of Commerce, and the local Business Improvement Association would want to embrace this huge literary connection to one of the world's best known authors. I offered to attend meetings to pitch this idea, and was blown off at every approach. They would listen to what I had to say, but I would be allowed only a tiny slot at a regular council meeting. As far as enthusiasm, there was none. I wrote a book about the Irving, Bracebridge connection, and while it sold well, the only time it was of any interest to a single council member, was when the mayor asked for a copy, to show a group of British visitors, a band I think, demonstrating the town's connection with England. Irving's "Bracebridge Hall," was written about Squire Bracebridge's estate in England. I never got it back, so I presume he either gave it to the group or tossed it on some dark shelf at town hall. That's okay. It was actually a milestone in the whole two year project.

How poor was the response to what the town has owned as provenance since 1864? I gave a lecture at the Muskoka Lakes Museum, in Port Carling, about reasons why Bracebridge, Ontario, had no interest in Washington Irving, or the literary connection they were entitled to use as a tourism resource. I got a good response from the audience. And there were folks from Bracebridge in attendance. Now I should footnote, that there have been numerous Christmas season events, celebrating "Bracebridge Hall," but not enough that it ever truly becomes a lasting characteristic of a proud town, with a booming literary connection to the rest of the world. I even intervened once, when the town was looking to the citizens for suggestions, to name new streets in a recently opened subdivision. How about using names penned by Washington Irving? How about Irving Lane? Sleepy Hollow Boulevard? Well, as I'm used to by now, there was no response……but then I really wasn't expected one either.

This is only one small area of annoyance for me, when it comes to the quest for identity. The problem really, stems from the fact, historians are rarely asked to participate……well, some select few are…..but let's just say there has never been a meaningful conference of local historians, to work out some of these alleged deficiencies in community identity. I guess they know, in advance, we wouldn't feel there was any great necessity to spend a dime looking for what already exists in plentiful supply. It's awfully frustrating to be ignored time and again, just because we're not always the most agreeable folks……but we know what we're talking about, because we've walked the walk. I have never once, ever, been sought out for any advice on matters of local heritage, by municipal authority. While it's true, I am a pain in the ass, I also know what I'm talking….or as presently, writing about……and in my mind, experience and a willingness to express it, (for free) should be considered enthusiasm…..not a threat to any one's agenda. It has long been seen in this way, thus I don't get disappointed any more because I'm not asked to participate where I'm most experienced. As an example, whatever you will read about the future of Woodchester Villa, and its present state of deterioration, and the future examination of its future……my name won't be associated with any of the solutions found. That hasn't stopped me from making comment, via this blog, and in a letter to the editor of the Bracebridge Examiner, over the past year, and making suggestions about its future……based on the truths of its past. You can go back to the extensive Woodchester Villa file on this blog site, which had five or six entries. I did offer the town my willingness to volunteer, as one of few members of the original museum board, and one of the founders of the Historical Society. I'm not expecting an invitation to speak on the subject, which is fine. As with my protest about the sale of Jubilee Park, councillors know what kind of sand I can put on the proverbial slide. Hey, that's just me.

So I've participated willingly, to the recent survey, and I suggest you do the same. I have made it clear that Bracebridge is an integral community, in one of the most hauntingly beautiful places on earth, Muskoka, and all my answers had something or other to do with the realities of history and environment……resources that have always served the community well, and with responsible stewardship, will equally benefit the future.

2012-01-01T07:52:00.001-08:00

2012 -

A YEAR OF SO MUCH POTENTIAL -

READY TO GO! TIME TO CHALLENGE THE WORLD! PROGRESS. LOTS AND LOTS OF PROGRESS. TAKE THE BULL BY THE HORNS. TAKE THE LEAD. STARE FEAR IN THE EYE. BITE THE BULLET. PAY THE BILLS!!!!!

AS FOR NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS, THERE'S ONLY ONE THAT COUNTS. A WILLINGNESS TO CARRY-ON, AND CHALLENGE THOSE THINGS THAT NEED OPPOSITION….REQUIRE STANDING-UP TO, AND HOLY GRAILS THAT NEED TO BE UNCOVERED…..AND CARRIED FORTH.

I HOPE EVERYONE WHO READS THIS, AND THOSE WHO MIGHT EVENTUALLY FIND IT ONLINE, HAS LESS OF A HANGOVER, THIS MORNING, AND MORE AMBITION TO DEAL WITH THE REALITIES OF A BRAND NEW YEAR. AND WE STARTED OFF WITH AN EARTHQUAKE IN JAPAN……AND HOPEFULLY THAT WON'T MEAN A REPEAT OF LAST YEAR'S TRAGEDY. BUT IT IS A CLEAR INDICATOR, THAT THERE IS NO INSULATION FROM THE WAYS OF THE WORLD……THE GLOBAL REALITIES OF FEAST AND FAMINE, PARADISE AND NATURAL DISASTER WITHIN SECONDS OF ONE ANOTHER.

WE ARE NOT INSULATED HERE IN MUSKOKA. WE ARE NOT SO DISTANT TO CALAMITIES, TO SAY WITH ANY CONFIDENCE, IT CAN'T HAPPEN TO US. IT CAN. THIS SHOULDN'T DAMPEN OUR ENTHUSIASM TO WELCOME A NEW YEAR. BUT LIKE THE ECONOMY, ONE MUST WELCOME CHANGE AND AT THE SAME TIME, FRANKLY ADMIT "STATUS QUO" IS JUST A NEAT THING TO SAY……BUT IT IS A SAIL WITH HOLES. ALWAYS HAS BEEN.

THERE ARE SNOW SQUALLS POTENTIAL FOR THIS AFTERNOON. TOMORROW MORNING, THE STOCK EXCHANGES AROUND THE WORLD…..WILL LET US KNOW WHAT THE WORLD ECONOMY'S POTENTIAL IS…..FOR THE NEXT TWELVE MONTHS. WILL THERE BE ANOTHER RECESSION? COULD THERE BE A REAL ESTATE SLIDE? WILL WE BE ABLE TO KEEP OUR JOBS, FIND JOBS, AND RECORD GOOD BUSINESS NUMBERS AT OUR RESPECTIVE BUSINESSES?

THIS SHOULDN'T BE DEPRESSING. IT WAS THE SAME LAST YEAR. AND EVERY YEAR BEFORE THAT. SOMETIMES WE JUST CHOOSE TO IGNORE REALITY, BECAUSE IT CONFLICTS WITH NIRVANA…..DISTURBS CONVENIENT IGNORANCE. SOME OF THE BIGGEST JAM-UPS WITH REALITY, HOWEVER, ARE ON THOSE OCCASIONS WHEN WE, AS A POPULATION, A CULTURE, DECIDE THAT AVOIDANCE AND STATUS QUO ARE INFINITELY MORE COMFORTABLE THAN DEALING WITH THE RIGORS OF CURRENT EVENTS……AND THE LANDSLIDE IT CAN GENERATE.

IT IS A BEAUTIFUL WINTER DAY HERE IN SOUTH MUSKOKA. IT IS WARMER THAN IT HAS BEEN, THERE IS A SERIOUS MELT GOING ON, AND I'M AFRAID THERE WON'T BE MUCH ICE MADE ON THE LAKES IN THE NEXT FEW DAYS. I EXPECT THAT BY LATER TODAY, THERE WILL BE A DRASTIC CHANGE OF WEATHER, AND BY THAT TIME, WE WILL HAVE OUR NEW YEAR'S DINNER ON THE TABLE, AND BE SETTLED NICELY BY THE HEARTH, TO LET A WINTER STORM GET ON WITH ITS BUSINESS. THE SQUALL WARNING WILL KEEP US FROM DOING SOMETHING STUPID, LIKE TAKING A LONG MOTOR-TRIP ON A HIGHWAY THROUGH THE SNOW-BELT. POSSIBLY, ONE DAY SOON, THERE WILL BE ENOUGH SNOW TO MAKE GOOD CROSS COUNTRY TRAILS FOR THE ANXIOUS SNOWMOBILE CROWD. BUT THEN, NATURE DOESN'T WORK THAT WAY. IT'LL COME WHEN THE CONDITIONS PREVAIL AND NOT A MOMENT SOONER.

WE WISH YOU ALL A GOOD START TO THE NEW YEAR, AND THAT YOU HAVE THE DETERMINATION TO MAKE A WONDERFUL YEAR, DESPITE ADVERSITY AND CHALLENGE. BRING IT ON.

2011-12-31T06:44:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-12-30T17:37:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-12-29T17:57:00.001-08:00

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!

2011-12-26T08:03:00.001-08:00

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.

2011-12-25T09:24:00.001-08:00

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.

2011-12-24T14:34:00.001-08:00

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.

2011-12-21T17:23:00.001-08:00

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!

2011-12-20T17:17:00.001-08:00

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.

2011-12-19T17:55:00.001-08:00

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!!!!

2011-12-18T07:55:00.001-08:00

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.

2011-12-15T16:51:00.001-08:00

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.

2011-12-14T17:49:00.000-08:00

CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBRIDGE -

DO CHILDREN STILL LISTEN FOR THE TRAIN HORN - LONG TO SEE THE ENGINE PASSING - ENJOY THE PEAK OF IMAGINATION - THE POLAR EXPRESS

I WOULD LIKE TO THINK, I REALLY WOULD,……THAT THERE ARE STILL YOUNGSTERS TODAY, WHO PAY ATTENTION TO THINGS IN THE URBAN-DIN, LIKE THE LOUD, RATTLING HORNS FROM PASSING TRAINS. I WOULD ALSO LIKE TO THINK THERE ARE YOUNG ADVENTURERS, WHO LET THEIR IMAGINATIONS GO, WHEN STARING AT A CROSSING PASSENGER TRAIN. WHERE IS IT GOING? WHERE HAS IT COME FROM? DOES IT CONNECT TO THE REST OF THE WORLD? WHO IS ON-BOARD?

LONG, LONG BEFORE THE CHRISMTAS-THEMED MOVIE, THE POLAR EXPRESS, I WAS THE CHARACTER-KID, DOUBTING THE EXISTENCE OF SANTA CLAUS BUT BEING WILLING TO TRUST A TRAIN CONDUCTOR, FOR AN OPPORTUNITY TO RIDE THE RAILS IN STYLE. WHEN I FIRST VIEWED THE MOVIE, I WONDERED HOW THEY GOT THE STORY-LINE, BECAUSE IT WAS THE WAY I GREW UP…….WITH AN IMAGINATION, A FASCINATION FOR WHAT SURROUNDED ME. TRAINS WERE OF PARTICULAR INTEREST. I IMAGINED ALL KINDS OF NEAT STUFF HAPPENING, IF I COULD ONLY AFFORD A TICKET TO SOMEWHERE…..NEAR OR FAR WOULD HAVE BEEN OKAY, BUT MY FAMILY DIDN'T HAVE THE MONEY FOR A TRAIN TICKET. IF WE WENT ANYWHERE IT WAS BY TAXI OR OUR OWN JALOPY, WHICH WAS NO GUARANTEE WE'D EVER ARRIVE AT OUR DESTINATION.

WHAT WAS FREE TO ME, AS A KID GROWING UP IN BRACEBRIDGE, WAS THE FRONT ROW SEAT THE OLD TRAIN STATION, BY THE ALBION HOTEL, AFFORDED ALL US WANDERLUST YOUNGSTERS, BACK IN MY VINTAGE OF THE MID-1960'S. THE STATION HAD A MANAGER, A MR. STACEY I BELIEVE, BUT THE ONLY TIME I EVER SAW HIM, WAS WHEN HE WOULD SET UP AN ARTIST'S EASLE ON THE PLATFORM, TO PAINT THE HOLLOW OF THE MUSKOKA RIVER, AND THE SILVER RAILS WHICH ARE ON THE HIGH SIDE OF THE TOPOGRAPHY. WE COULD GO INTO THE STATION, AND SIT ON THE LOUNGE CHAIRS FOR HOURS, AND NEVER SEE ANOTHER SOUL. BUT IT WAS A JOYOUS OCCASION TO SIT ON THAT RAISED FREIGHT PLATFORM, OF THE STORAGE COMPONENT OF THE STATION, THAT WAS MOST ALLURING TO THE HUNT'S HILL KIDS. YOU WERE WITHIN ONLY A FEW FEET OF THE TRAIN WHEN IT PULLED INTO THE STATION. THE FREIGHT TRAINS DIDN'T STOP VERY OFTEN, SO IT WAS MOSTLY THE PASSENGER RUN THAT MADE BRACEBRIDGE A SCHEDULED STOP.

Sometimes I'd wander down there by myself, if my mates were busy, or away for the holidays, and there was never a moment to be bored. I imagined all kinds of neat adventures, if only I was permitted to travel onboard my version of the Polar Express. It was long past the steam era, which I would have enjoyed even more, yet to me, a train was a train, and it didn't matter what fuel it used to meet me at the station. A few of us lads used to enjoy riding on the freight cart, and there were some perilous rides down the ramp, that was somewhat blocked to slow down any run-away situation. Those ridges nearly killed us, as we shot from the back to the front real fast. We'd run it up and down the platform, as if we were the station employees. It wasn't hard to imagine the old days, when this station would have been jammed with eager, anxious passengers, and the platform crowded with friends and family, coming to meet those arriving home again. We all saw the early pictures of the station, and I remember seeing one, of a train derailment right at the platform we used to play. It was a steam engine that toppled off the rails, and actually hit the station itself.

As a kid, from the Hunt's Hill neighborhood, I had to cross those tracks four times each day, to get to Bracebridge Public School. I used to come home for lunch. All of us could set our watches by the train horns and the passing freight and passenger arrivals. Even at school, in the winter, I could hear the bellow of those great train horns, above the teacher's voice, through the closed windows. Late at night, I'd be startled awake by another passing freight train, and lay there listening to the "click-clack" of the frozen rails, at this time of the year rolling year. I would lay there, dreamily pondering, what it would be like to jump aboard that train, like I'd seen in the westerns I watched on television. My mother never knew how close I'd come, back in those days, to trying to jump aboard in the same fashion. I just didn't have a substitute for the horse, the cowboys used to get up to train-speed before they made their leap of faith. Both my parents, knowing my fascination for the old station, warned me repeatedly about getting to close too the tracks. And should I have ever tried to get on one, they told me about children like me, having their legs cut right off, after falling beneath the iron wheels of passing trains. Still, I was fascinated by the legend of trains, and I read a great deal about them in books and magazines from the public and school libraries. I even did a school project on trains, and I remember Canadian National Railways, sending me a huge envelope of train brochures and company histories, for a Grade Eight project. This was one of my better projects in a rather lackluster school career.

It was in the winter-time that I paid most attention to the train horns. I'd be out on the hard packed snow of Alice Street, with a frozen puck, a sliver stick, and two lumps of snow for goal posts, and there would be silence…….in the dusting of snow, spiraling down so beautifully in the lamplight. Then all of a sudden…… a burst of thunder, against solitude, I'd hear the first of numerous train horns in the distance. I waited for each bellow, and I knew the exact intersection the train was then passing, simply by the measurement of horn blasts, the echo where I was situated, and the clarity of the horn over the frozen townscape. On frightfully cold nights, you could almost see that horn blast, it was so loud and intrusive on a sleepy old town. Each time it bellowed, I might have winced a tad, but it just stirred that Thule in my heart, to race to the station, jump aboard, and head for exotic places……anywhere but this place, was my strategy.

Don't get me wrong. I loved my hometown. Yet the allure of those glimmering ribbon rails, in the moonlight of a winter night, was a powerful generator of grand schemes and great escapes to find fame and fortune…..adventures and excitement beyond mortal measure. Like I said earlier in this column, The Polar Express was what I dreamed of…….a fascinating train ride to the North Pole. That would have suited me fine. I needed affirmation the old guy was still on the job.

Whether it was Christmas-time, spring, summer or fall, my life was very much influenced by the fact I had to pass that old train station four times each day, at least twice every Saturday and Sunday. For recreation, we spent hour upon hour on that station platform, or pretending to be conductors and passengers, preparing for travel in the station lounge where we could get our imaginary tickets. All of us then were fascinated by possibility and potential, and the only thing that dashed it all, was when we watched yet another train pass us by. We were a resilient lot, and simply planned to catch the next one, or the next one after that, until our childish innocence fell away, as dust in the wind. Our girlfriends didn't enjoy the same pleasure, sitting on that railway ramp…..which always afforded painful splinters to our backsides.

I can remember going to work one morning, when I was news editor of The Herald-Gazette, and coming over Hunt's Hill, to find, to my horror, a wrecking-crew knocking down the last few erect timbers of the Bracebridge Railway Station. By time I got to the site, it was pretty much demolished, except for the platform. I was disgusted, and that has shown up in my writing about the incident, ever since. The building was toppled with nary a mention to the local press, very much intentionally to avoid the history-huggers, who might have stood in the way of the wrecking ball. If they were trying to escape negative publicity about the demolition, they were about as off base, and disconnected with the public, as they could possibly divide between town hall and constituents. They were right about one thing, of course, and that is what they'd anticipated about the architectural crazies getting involved. We surely would have, but there wasn't anything left to save, except some broken window frames, glass and shingles.

I'm looking forward to watching The Polar Express, with Tom Hanks, again this Christmas, and I will relive those days again, when imagination was my glory…..my ecstasy. I couldn't afford a ticket on one of those trains but I rode them anyway……sort of, in my over-active, ever-stimulated imagination. The price? It was free! Pity the children today, who seldom use their imaginations, to travel the silver rails, they way we did…..way back when!

I continue to follow news about petitions to improve rail service here, and to one day re-construct the old station……of which I heartily approve.

IF YOU HAVE A SPARE MOMENT OR TWO, CHECK OUT SOME OF MY OTHER ONLINE SITES / BLOGS, INCLUDING GRAVENHURST, MUSKOKA AND ALGONQUIN GHOSTS, MY WALDEN POND, AND MUSKOKA COOKERY HERITAGE.

MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY NEW YEAR FROM THE CURRIE FAMILY

2011-12-13T17:46:00.003-08:00

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.

2011-12-13T17:46:00.001-08:00

CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBRIDGE -

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

2011-12-12T17:33:00.000-08:00

CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBIRDGE-

WOODCHESTER VILLA MUSEUM GETTING SOME ATTENTION FROM THE TOWN - A FUTURE - AFTER A BLEAK COUPLE OF YEARS CLOSE TO THE PUBLIC

THE WINTER SEASON SNOW STORM THAT TOOK DOWN THE VERANDAH AT BRACEBRIDGE'S MUSEUM, WOODCHESTER VILLA, WAS THE SAME ONE THAT STOPPED ME FROM GETTING TO MY FATHER'S APARTMENT. WHILE IT WASN'T A DIRECT RESULT OF THE STORM'S WEIGHT UPON FAILING OUTDOOR FIXTURES, IT WAS WHAT STOPPED US FROM VISITING ON THE SAME DAY AS HE HAD A STROKE…..WHICH EVENTUALLY LED TO HIS DEMISE. DURING THE SAME SNOW EVENT, MY SON AND HIS MATE WERE TRAPPED ON HIGHWAY II NEAR THE BRACEBRIDGE FAIR GROUNDS, AND IF THEY HAD BEEN ABLE TO GET BACK INTO TOWN, THEY WOULD HAVE STAYED AT HIS GRANDFATHER'S APARTMENT THAT NIGHT…….STRANGE THING THAT……BECAUSE THEY WOULD HAVE BEEN THERE AS HE SUFFERED HIS STROKE, AND BEEN ABLE TO GET MEDICAL ASSISTANCE SOONER. HE LIVED ONE BLOCK FROM THE HOSPITAL. WHAT IS CURIOUS, MAYBE A LITTLE IRONIC….IS THAT ALL OF THE ABOVE HAD SOMETHING OR OTHER TO DO WITH WOODCHESTER VILLA. I WAS ONE OF THE FOUNDING DIRECTORS OF THE BRACEBRIDGE HISTORICAL SOCIETY, AND A DIRECTOR AND MANAGER OF WOODCHESTER. ANDREW AND HIS YOUNGER BROTHER ROBERT, USED TO RIDE THEIR TOY CARTS AROUND THE MUSEUM GROUNDS WHILE I WAS WORKING THERE; MY MOTHER AND FATHER WERE VOLUNTEERS DURING MY TENURE…..MY MOTHER ACTUALLY BEING EMPLOYED AS A TOUR GUIDE FOR ONE SUMMER. ANDREW AND HIS MATE WERE FORCED TO FOLLOW THE SNOW PLOWS SOUTH DOWN THE HIGHWAY, HOME TO GRAVENHURST, LATER THAT FATEFUL EVENING, INSTEAD OF BEING ALLOWED BACK ONTO TOWN STREETS. IT'S JUST HOW FATE WORKS.

OUR FAMILY SPENT MANY CHRISTMASES AS WOODCHESTER VILLA AND MUSEUM, THROUGH THE EIGHTIES, AND WE HOSTED AT LEAST FIVE OPEN HOUSES DURING THE CHRISTMAS PERIOD. IT IS NO SECRET THAT WOODCHESTER HAS BEEN AN ALLEGEDLY HAUNTED ABODE, AND I AM JUST ONE OF THE PERPETRATORS OF SUCH INFORMATION…..BY EXPERIENCES ENOUGH TO WRITE A BOOK. BUT NEVER ONCE, IN MY LONG RELATIONSHIP WITH THIS OCTAGONAL BUILDING, AND ITS RESIDENT SPIRITS, WAS I EVER ONCE UNSETTLED BY OCCURRENCES, OR FRIGHTENED. IT WAS AN OLD AND DEAR DWELLING FOR ALL OUR FAMILY, AND AT CHRISTMAS, IT SEEMED MOST CONTENT. I HAVE RECENTLY WRITTEN A CHRISTMAS REMEMBRANCE OF WOODCHESTER VILLA FOR ANOTHER PUBLICATION, BUT I WANTED TO SHARE IT WITH THOSE INTERESTED IN BRACEBRIDGE HERITAGE. I WAS PLEASED TO READ ABOUT A NEW INITIATIVE TO EXAMINE THE MUSEUM'S FUTURE THIS COMING WINTER SEASON, TO DISCUSS WHAT PURPOSE IT MIGHT BETTER SERVE THE COMMUNITY IN THE FUTURE. OF THIS, I WHOLE HEARTEDLY AGREE. AND I HOPE ONE DAY, THEY WILL FIND THE FUNDS TO RE-BUILD THE GRAND VERANDAH OVERLOOKING THE BEAUTIFUL LAWNS, AND THE MUSKOKA RIVER BELOW. THIS LITTLE CHRISTMAS TOME, IS A RESPECTFUL TRIBUTE, TO A WONDERFUL PLACE, I LOVED TO WORK AND VISIT…..PARTICULARLY SO AT CHRISTMAS…..WHERE WE ALL MADE RATHER MERRY.

CHRISTMAS SPIRITS THAT HAVE HAUNTED ME - PLEASANTLY

The light snow, and gusty north wind, this December afternoon, have already contributed to a small sculpted drift on the window sill. It is a bright day, here at Birch Hollow, and two of our cats have nestled in the side-chair by my desk. The dog, named Bosko, has once again thrown his body across my toes, and while I usually protest the intrusion, at not being able to move my legs, it is chilly enough down here in my archives, that her warmth is quite pleasing. My tea is cold, and I've been staring out this window for the last half hour. I ponder a lot on days like this. The ones leading up to Christmas, realizing there is so much left to do, gifts to hunt and gather, and work around the old homestead in preparation for what the squirrels and chipmunks tell me will be a long, cold, hard Canadian winter. (Which by the way, is at odds with what the weather folks predict)

A splendidly nostalgic scene, such as this pleasant dusting of snow over The Bog, here at Birch Hollow, reminds me of so many other mindful occasions, when I got lost in the moment, and what was supposed to be a writing session, became one long reminiscence about places I've worked over a lifetime in authordom. You see, I've always been a voyeur, and that has certainly influenced my writing. While my contemporaries have buried themselves in books and their consumption, to enhance their own writing, I have spent years studying the world around me, that is not in print, and can never truly be captured. In its essence, it defies mere mortal description. It is more powerful than that! The ethereal allure of forests, lakes, sky, endless horizon, and finding our place within, is a perspective philosophers have pondered for centuries, without much more than poetic speculation.

At this moment, I can so clearly remember sitting down in the cluttered office of former Bracebridge, Ontario industrialist, Henry Bird, of the former Birds Woollen Mill, and looking out from the museum onto the similarly snow-clad landscape above the Muskoka River. It was the museum I helped create and manage for many years, and I loved to take a few moments, at the end of work days, when all the visitors had left the property, to just sit down in Mr. Bird's office chair, and enjoy the historical ambience of the octagonal estate. It was so silent there, and the snow falling outside, appeared as if someone had agitated a snow-globe, and created the magical setting of Christmas in the hinterland of Ontario.

I frequently penned notes, from that antique desk, at window-side, looking down on the old town, being seasonally adorned by windblown snow. It was never difficult writing about the town, or the reminisces of its old days, sitting in that creaking chair. Watching out as the sun began to set, and the shadows of the tall pines became more diffused in deepening shadows, and the windblown snow that stuck to the bark, here and there to the skyline. I often found myself so comfortable in that office, above the dark water of the winding river, that I'd nod off routinely. It was then I'd finally resolve to close up the museum, and head back home to my young family, wondering again, undoubtedly, what had happened to father.

I have written in some very haunted houses, over the past thirty-five years. Woodchester Villa was most definitely a spirited place. Even visitors picked up on the spiritual qualities and quantities of this 1880's house on the hillside. There was always the sound of footsteps on the main staircase, the sound of barking dogs, where there were none, voices of children when nary a child was in the building, or nearby, and the knocking here and there that always reminded the museum keepers we weren't alone. When a volunteer, one day, decided to record some music off the Victrola, in the parlor, to re-play in the museum, via a tape recorder, the microphone picked up many sounds that were not supposed to be there. Voices that were not on the actual record, as they were instrumentals, and many of the similar knocks inadvertently recorded, were ones staff was used to hearing throughout the house. There is a great deal of noise in fact, that wasn't in the parlor at the time the tapes were being recorded, rogue footsteps from someone walking through the room, and a banging sound, as if someone was using the dumb-waiter, to bring dinner up to the main floor dining room, from the basement kitchen. While we should have been surprised to hear these noises captured on the recording, it was pretty much just a validation, of what we were quite used to hearing on a daily, weekly basis of service at the museum.

One Christmas, before I left employment of the museum, my wife Suzanne and I, had spent a whole day decorating the old homestead, for our annual open house. We had decorated the oak railings of the main staircase with evergreen bows, holly berries, bright red ribbons, and set out a beautiful Christmas tree in the parlor, with handmade decorations. The dining room table had a beautiful Victorian era centerpiece, and the freshly made cinnamon, clove and apple pomanders provided a most amazing, traditional scent to the building. When I arrived that Sunday morning, to bring in the trays of cookies and cakes, the house was as welcoming as if the spirits within, had agreed, the only haunting this day, would be of the most pleasant-kind. This restored house, with its dark and heavy Victorian furnishings, could appear rather gloomy at times, and it definitely possessed a mood, which it prevailed upon all who worked here. This was different. It was the same each Christmas season, as if there was a truce from the normal fare of rapping on doors, and footsteps on the staircases, and haunting voices in the dark corners of the octagonal structure. It's of course, only my perception of this, but others did agree, that Christmas seemed to bring about a great change in aura here at Woodchester, and it wasn't simply a change of decoration, or the smell of fresh baking on a candle-lit table. It was clear, to me, as its steward, that the Bird family had enjoyed many, many wonderful Christmases in this riverside homestead.

On this particular morning, I brought along something extra. I had taped, at home, the narrative of the movie, "A Christmas Carol," inspired of course, by the book written by Charles Dickens. It was the Allistar Sim portrayal of Ebenezer Scrooge, my favorite, that I taped to play during the open house. To check it out, I popped it into the tape player, hidden in an unused bathroom, and the sound came from a speaker tucked into the cabinet of the parlor Victrola. I plopped myself down in one of the big chairs, next to the piano, and listened to the ominous bassoon introduction, as Scrooge wandered along the snowy streets of London, England, toward his own soon-to-be haunted estate, once owned by his business partner, Jacob Marley. Marley, of course, being the lead ghost in the night of spirits, visiting the old curmudgeon, Scrooge, to hasten his awakening to a restored humanity toward his fellow man.

It was not as if I was trying to impose or suggest, any of the values exemplified by the good Mr. Dickens, or Scrooge for that matter, and I had no intention of inviting Christmas spirits into Woodchester, by suggestion. Woodchester was a kind and comforting place, despite the encounters we had with the paranormal. It wasn't a threatening place, and I was never scared of anything that may have haunted the former abode. It's true that some patrons got "spooked," you might say, from some sensations they got walking through the house, and a few tour guides did perpetuate stories, scaring themselves in the process, but as for this being a frightful place, well, it was just nonsense. Spirited? Yes! It was a very spirited place. And as I sat in the huge parlor chair, looking out the window that afforded a view of the tall pines, the narrative on the recording, the ambience of the house, the aroma of evergreen and cookies, was the most enchanted I'd ever seen of this place I helped preserve a decade earlier. It was as if the old house appreciated my sentiments, and I had acknowledged and validated its family heritage from the 1880's, sheltering large, prosperous families through difficult times, and joyous celebrations.

It seemed as if the old house knew we were about to part ways, as I had already made a decision to resign as manager the next year. It would be the last time I'd set out these treats on the dining table, or adorn these walls with angels and Victorian decorations, pull in evergreen boughs for the door trim and railings, and never again set out the freshly cut tree, for this warm, nostalgic parlor. I would not be sitting and writing journals in Mr. Bird's office, and it wouldn't be the sound of my footfall, walking the halls of the house, late at night, checking to make sure all was battened down, and safe, while a winter storm burdened the old rafters with heavy snow. We weathered a lot of storms in that decade of time. It was this particular Christmas that we paid our respects, to each other, I suppose, and enjoyed some final moments sharing the Christmas cheer that seemed to calm the spirits in house and ease the mortal regrets, of moving on.

I was late getting home that morning, as I had actually taken the time to listen to the tape recording twice, dawdling in that contenting residence on the hill, enjoying our casual solitude, before the large crowds expected by mid-afternoon. Celebratory folks, with hungry kids, who would devour the cookies to the last crumb, and pull on the decorations, and pound up and down these wooden stairs, and the carol singing we anticipated, filling the hall with Christmas tradition, before all was closed again until spring re-opening. I had got involved with the restoration of this house, way back in 1977, because I knew it needed to be part of my life and work. I can't explain, other than to say, for about thirteen years, it was on my mind daily. It's struggles, and the delays of restoration, the foibles of low funding, and operational nightmares, including staffing shortfalls, and a leaky roof, were part of a normal day on-site or off. As a Mr. Mom, while my wife worked at the local high school, I kept both our sons at the museum on most business days, and Suzanne, on her days off, used to run educational programs and special events, seasonally, (such as at Christmas), while I shoveled snow, snow and more snow from the hillside lanes and paths.

Woodchester Villa and Museum was a family affair. It was at Christmas, generally speaking, that we wound down from the year of tours and museum events, and truly enjoyed the open house, as much, if not more, than the patrons, who trundled up the snowy path, to the bright glow of lights twinkling through the misty frost of the Bracebridge Falls. We could relax a tad, and sing along with others, and feel good about what had been accomplished in the past twelve months. The fact that it may have been haunted never entered our consideration. It was the character of the house, after all, and it wasn't much different, other than its octagonal shape, from many other historic houses I've lived in, or visited in my life. There was an aura in this homestead. A powerful, often intrusive presence, and I felt it sitting in the parlor, that morning, listening to a Christmas Carol coming from the Victrola. But as the resident spirits watched me, slacking off from work for that respite, I was well aware, as I had always been, that I wasn't alone. I was being studied. Watched. I was its guardian. Its protector. I was its spokesperson, and we were the family that would honor its past respectfully, with reverence to all the Christmases past. I wasn't frightened of this sensation of being amidst spirits past. Truthfully, it was, in respect to Dickens, a welcome experience, to be the liaison between the past and present, and to later that day, welcome curious citizens into Bird family history. I was, as I stated earlier, just a voyeur of this enchanting scene; a mere facilitator and conservator of a Christmas celebration, when friends and neighbors come together, to enjoy peace and goodwill on earth.

The event, as usual, was a huge success. Nary a cookie crumb, or butter-tart was left for the resident mice. (I did leave a few, because it was Christmas after all, and we always had at least one resident mouse). We had a large crowd, and a boisterous one when it came to regaling the Victorian celebration with song. I closed-up the house that night, thinking back upon all the years I'd spent validating the spirits of this grand home. It was albeit, a weird relationship at times, as it appeared to staff I was talking to myself a lot. When in fact, I was talking to whatever spirit was giving me a hard time, or cajoling about this or that. Every time we changed an exhibit or shifted furniture, we'd find some resistance to change.

I recalled many of the restorative sojourns, huddled in the wee office, above the waterfalls, penning thoughts about what it would be like to have lived here, back in the 1880's, at a time when there was still a clear view down onto the woolen mill, and the pioneer main street of the cart-trailed village. In my own mindful remembrance, I had lived here in many ways, without the need to occupy a bedstead, just as I continue to dwell in its memory, decades after our tearful parting. I always find a little well-up in the eye, on Christmas Eve, after all the stockings are hung by the chimney with care, slumber settling in here at Birch Hollow, thinking about those final moments, when, without a spoken word, I extended a heartfelt farewell to a very haunted house…..and it returned, in kind, a powerful message, not to grieve, that as we had always shared good times and bad, we would be linked as kindred spirits forever.

When I write in this column series, that I have never met, or experienced a ghost I didn't like, well, it has a lot to do with my years working at Woodchester Villa. I'm haunted to this day, by only pleasant memories. The distant, hollow sounds of footsteps where there was no mortal passage, or the voices of children at play, where no physical play was occurring, or when the barking of nonexistent dogs strangely echoed the halls, and knocks were abundant, there was never a malevolent moment at Woodchester Villa. Not once.

2011-12-08T17:30:00.001-08:00

CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBRIDGE - THE WIDE-EYED KID

IT WAS A CAREFREE TIME, WASN'T IT? I MADE THE MOST OF IT - I WAS EVERYWHERE A KID COULD GO - AND IT GOT ME INTO TROUBLE

I WAS A RINK RAT. I'D BE AT THE ARENA AT 7 A.M. ON A SATURDAY MORNING, AND IF I PLAYED MY CARDS RIGHT, I'D BE THERE TO JUST BEFORE SUPPER. TOWN LEAGUE HOCKEY, THIS TIME OF YEAR, OCCUPIED THE EARLY HOURS OF SATURDAY. THEN THERE WAS THE DISTINCT POSSIBILITY I'D BE CALLED TO TRAVEL WITH AN ALLSTAR TEAM, AS THE STARTING, BUT MOSTLY BACK-UP GOALIE. I WAS GOOD WITH THAT. THERE WASN'T MUCH GOING ON AT HOME, AND I LOVED HOCKEY IN ALL ITS SHAPES, SIZES AND CONFIGURATIONS. TRAVELLING WAS NEAT TOO. I COULD GET TWO GAMES ON A SATURDAY, OR MOST OF THE TIME, A GAME AND A PRACTICE. IN BETWEEN, I'D VOLUNTEER TO HELP MANAGER DOUG SMITH WITH ICE SHOVELLING DUTIES, WORKING WITH FRED "BING" CROSBY, WHO RAN THE BIG BARREL ON THE CART, USED FOR WATERING THE ICE…..IN THESE EARLY DAYS BEFORE THE TRACTOR, OUTFITTED FOR WATERING….AND THEN THE MODERN ICE MACHINE THAT SCRAPES AND WATERS IN ONE SMOOTH PASS. GEEZ, COME TO THINK OF IT, IT WAS THE 1960'S, AND WE WERE STILL USING THIS ANTIQUATED WATER-DRUM ON WHEELS. IT TOOK ABOUT FOUR LADS TO MAN THE SHOVELS, IN A ROW, TO CLEAN THE ICE IN A REASONABLE AMOUNT OF TIME. WE GOT A QUARTER TO SPEND AT THE SNACK BAR, ALSO RUN BY THE ARENA. IT BOUGHT US A HOT DOG AND THEN WE'D MOOCH A POP ON TOP OF THAT…..AS WE FOUND DOUG AN EASY TOUCH. GRUFF, LOUD AND SOMETIMES DOWNRIGHT NASTY, BUT HE COULDN'T LOOK A THIRSTY KID IN THE EYE, WITHOUT SLAPPING HIS FACE, JUST UNDER HIS TIPPED-UP FEDORA, AND RELENTING TO THE WEE ONES BEGGING IN FRONT OF THE COUNTER.

IF I PLAYED DODGE AND DART A BIT, HIDING IN THE BLEACHERS, OR IN AN EMPTY DRESSING ROOM, A YOUNG FELLOW COULD GET INTO PUBLIC SKATING FOR FREE, AND THEN WITH CLEVER POSITIONING, WIND UP STAYING FOR THE AFTERNOON ALLSTAR GAMES. THERE MIGHT BE THREE BACK TO BACK IF I WAS ON A REAL WINNING SPREE. AND I'D NEVER BE OUT A DIME…..UNLESS OF COURSE, MY MOTHER HAD SPOTTED ME MY WEEKLY ALLOWANCE. I WOULD HAVE BLOWN THOSE TWO BUCKS ON "THRILLS" GUM, A SWEET MARIE BAR, LICORICE, ANOTHER HOT DOG, AND A COLD POP OR FOUR. IN TOTAL I DID PRETTY GOOD ON THESE DAYS, BECAUSE WITH WHAT DOUG GAVE US OVER THE DAY FOR SHOVELLING, AND THE MONEY I FOUND ON THE CONCRETE FLOOR BENEATH THE SEATS IN THE ARENA, I'D PROBABLY BLOW ABOUT FIVE BUCKS ON PERSONAL TREATS. AS WELL, I'D COME HOME WITH AN ARMFUL OF BROKEN STICKS, PUCKS, TOQUES AND MITTS I FOUND, AND A LOT OF OTHER SALVAGE LEFT OVER AFTER HOCKEY GAMES.

I think there was more fun attached to being a rink rat, than a hockey player back then. I was always a reluctant goalie. I loved street hockey, and playing net was fun. In a real game, where my teammates called me "sieve" after every goal, there wasn't a lot of enjoyment being wet, cold, and usually on the losing team. This did improve a tad over the years, and I actually got to be pretty good at guarding the net. I was even selected to attend the Red Wing Hockey School, operated by NHL'ers Ron Ingram and hometown boy, Roger Crozier, by the mid 1960's, already an all-star goaltender in that golden six team league. Roger told me, shortly before he died (I worked for his youth charity, the Crozier Foundation), that coaches at that time, figured I was on the way to being the next NHL prospect. When he told me, I inhaled part of a bun, and nearly choked to death. I couldn't believe that I would have ever been considered worthy of this extra attention, because of my good play. I was always led to believe, it was an act of charity, for us poor kids that particular summer. And by all accounts we were poor. At least that's what the other Bracebridge players at the camp told me, and the other poor blokes that had also been invited….."Yea Currie, they wanted to help some poor kids out…..and here you are." Hey, I was good with that, because I never once, faced even a smidgeon of denial that my family didn't have the proverbial "pot" to pee in. I was just glad to get out of the heat and enjoy the summer ice. I had to re-write my biography when I found out that Roger actually thought I had some talent.

Point is, the arena was my second home. My home away from home. At Christmas, it was a place to celebrate and "fascinate", and I'll tell you how, in future blogs.

2011-12-08T17:29:00.000-08:00

CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBRIDGE - THE KID CHRONICLES

I LOVED THAT LIFE UP ON ALICE STREET - BUT I APPRECIATE IT EVEN MORE NOW…..AND WISH I COULD GO BACK IN TIME, AND ENJOY THAT MUCH MORE

THERE'S NO DOUBT ABOUT THE INFLUENCES OF CHILDHOOD, AFFECTING THE OUTPUT OF ADULTHOOD. IT WAS FROM THAT THIRD FLOOR APARTMENT, UP ON BRACEBRIDGE'S ALICE STREET, THAT LAID DOWN THE FOUNDATION OF MOST OF WHAT I DO, AND WRITE ABOUT TODAY……IN ONE CHARACTERISTIC UPON ANOTHER. IT WAS THE MID TO LATE 1960'S, AND 70'S THAT I'M WRITING ABOUT IN THIS SMALL BLOG PROJECT. I'M DOING A PARALLEL ONE FOR MY PRESENT HOMETOWN OF GRAVENHURST, WHERE OUR FAMILY OF FOUR HAS RESIDED SINCE 1989. IT HAS MOST DEFINITELY BEEN A STRONG CONTEMPORARY INFLUENCE, AND I WANTED TO SET THE RECORD STRAIGHT…….ABOUT IT BEING A WONDERFUL, BOUNDLESS SOURCE OF INSPIRATION. I HAVE LONG FELT A DEBT OF GRATITUDE FOR BOTH MUSKOKA TOWNS, THAT HAVE GIVEN ME SUCH FERTILE GROUND TO WORK AND PLAY AS A WRITER-IN-RESIDENCE.

I WILL NEVER BE ASKED TO BECOME A WRITER-IN-RESIDENCE AT THE LOCAL PUBLIC LIBRARY, IN EITHER TOWN, OR BE INVITED TO ADDRESS ANY GROUP, OR GATHERING, ASSEMBLY OR OTHERWISE, BECAUSE MY STORIES AREN'T WHAT THEY'RE LOOKING FOR, IN A COMMUNITY SPOKESPERSON. I OFFER NO APOLOGY FOR TELLING IT THE WAY IT IS, EVEN IF THAT MEANS NEVER GETTING A CHANCE TO ADDRESS THE "SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF THE COMMONWEALTH" ANNUAL GENERAL MEETING…..OR ANY PARALLEL GROUP. ASSOCIATE HISTORIANS CAN'T GET AWAY FROM ME FAST ENOUGH, BECAUSE I BREAK THEIR IDEA OF PROTOCOL EVERY OTHER SENTENCE, AND AS FOR POLITICAL CORRECTNESS, ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS SUGGEST BRACEBRIDGE, IN ITS EARLIEST DAYS, HAD A NUMBER OF HOUSES OF ILL REPUTE. THAT ISN'T WHAT LOCAL HISTORIANS WANT TO WRITE ABOUT. WHO CARES WHAT THEY WANT? THE REAL WORLD I'VE RESIDED IN ALL THESE YEARS, HAS BEEN FULL OF INTERESTING CAPERS AND INTERACTIONS, SOME GOOD, SOME AWFUL, AND SOME THAT WILL NEVER MAKE IT TO PRINT. BUT THERE IS NO SANITIZING HERE……WITH MY RECOLLECTIONS, BECAUSE THEY WERE ALL REAL, HARD FACTS OF OUR LIVES……..AND I'M NOT IN THE HABIT OF SACRIFICING HONESTY, TO MAKE A STORY MORE ACCEPTABLE TO THE GENERAL PUBLIC. HISTORY ALWAYS HAS ITS WORTS. THEY DON'T BOTHER ME AT ALL…..AS I'VE SUFFERED A FEW OF MY OWN THAT I'VE HEAD TO WEAR AS CUFFLINKS FOR DECADES. WHAT IS IMPORTANT, IS THAT I'M GOING TO RELATE AN HONEST PORTRAYAL OF A TIME IN MY OWN LIFE…..IN A GOOD NEIGHBORHOOD, WITH INTERESTING MATES, WITH WHO I SCUFFLED, FOUGHT, WON, LOST, AND PLAYED WITH FOR MANY, MANY YEARS. OF COURSE, IT'S NOT HISTORY IN THE STRICTEST SENSE. IT ISN'T A GLAD HANDING EXERCISE TO BESTOW GREAT HONORS ON A HOMETOWN, BECAUSE IT SEEMS LIKE A GOOD THING TO DO. IT ISN'T MEANT AS EXPLOITATION, ABOUT UNFORTUNATE EVENTS AND CIRCUMSTANCES THAT DEVELOPED…….AND WHEN I SUGGEST THAT OUR FAMILY WAS BROKE FOR MOST OF THIS PERIOD, TRUST ME, IT'S NOT FICTION. BUT WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN SAD, AND TRAUMATIC, WAS ACTUALLY THE OPPOSITE. WE WERE THE FIGHTING IRISH, AND WE ALWAYS LANDED OUR OUR FEET. SOMETIMES THE SHOES LET-GO PREMATURELY, AND IT'S TRUE WE WERE PRETTY GOOD AT MENDING AND BINDING TOGETHER, TO GET A LITTLE MORE MILEAGE…..EVEN FROM OUR HOST OF JALOPIES. IT'S WHAT I FIND BOTH NOSTALGIC AND WONDERFUL ABOUT HAVING GROWN UP IN A NEIGHBORHOOD THAT GAVE A CRAP……..AND YOU FOUND THAT OUR WHEN ONE OF THEM PHONED MY FATHER OR MOTHER, TO LET THEM KNOW I WAS TOSSING APPLES AT FRONT WINDOWS, OR SETTING FIRE TO BAGS OF DOG POOP ON FRONT STOOPS. I HAD A HELL OF A LOT OF PARENTS, WHEN I LIVED ON ALICE STREET, LET ME TELL YOU. GOOD TIMES.

The Alice Street apartment, at times, was more like a hostel than a residence. Most folks left their doors open through the day, unless they had to go out, and we all wandered in an out of each others pads……pretty much when the mood struck. It wasn't a hippy hang-out or anything, but we all felt comfortable with one another, to be openly liberal in this fashion. I can remember great practical jokes being played, where a bathroom door would be flung open, while a resident was having a bath. The long hall, and the bathroom at one end, allowed for a pretty good view from doorstep to bathtub. Oh there were a lot of howls after something like that. TheN there was the time one resident, goaded by another, decided to don downhill skis, and try the staircase. I didn't say the apartment was known for its sobriety. There were a thousand incidents of this happening, during our years of residence. As confessional, I cut my teeth as a practical joker, in that same building, on some unsuspecting folks…..who just thought I was a snotty nosed kid….always staring and making snide comments. One day, and as God is my witness, I planned to startle my mother coming down the stairs with laundry. I whipped around the corner with a "boo" or something like that, and put a woman on her keister, down a full flight of stairs. I didn't know an arse on linoleum could sound so horrific. She got to the last stair with a thud, some nervous flatulence and an audible "ouch, ouch, Christ, ouch," looked at me, and said something like…."Teddy Currie…..if you as much as smile, you will not survive the beating you are going to get." Jesus, I was scared-straight for the next fifteen minutes, until the urge consumed me all over again. I did do it once more that year of infamy, and yes, I scared my mother the same way, and she hit eight of eight stairs with her behind, and said roughly the same thing as I'd heard before. I ran and ran and ran.

Eventually, I got enough retaliatory action to pay off the debt of pranks-played. But everyone in that building was some sort of prank artist. They may have been subtle, but I'm telling you, it was neat stuff…..all these adults screwing with each other's normalcy. The landlord was just as bad. He liked his Christmas grog, and loved to visit the tenants when he got tipsy. He came to our apartment one night, when my parents were out at a party, and told me he wanted to give me a little present. I used to mow the lawns so I supposed it was a bonus for a job well done. He insisted on visiting our newly erected Christmas tree, and fumbling with his wallet, and balance, stuck a ten dollar bill into the needles on a high branch, and then proceeded to fall head first into the illuminated shrub……causing a roll of epic proportion, such that he was matted in tinsel and tree lights, and my friend and I had a Dickens of a time, freeing him from his predicament. We got him out the door finally, a little bruised, but festive none the less, and he went on to other apartments to spread the goodwill. My friend Rod looked out the window, a short while later, and the portly gent was making snow angels on the lawn…….until we realized he was just trying to get up, and failing to do so. Maybe it was a sad situation, from a social point of view, but he wasn't crying and neither were we. He gave us extra money for getting him home that night, which was only next door. Then his wife didn't want him there, and the dog tried to bit him. Merry Christmas. He may have slept in the car that night.

So much in those days was speckled with humor, even though it might have been an adverse situation at the precise moment it occurred. It was like the landlord's wife, Hilda, asking us wee chaps to help her clear the weeds from the rock garden on the back hillside. We didn't know it would involve fire-setting. Geez she almost burned down the building and about four neighborhood houses. We were supposed to hit the fire with shovels if it went out of control. Well that took about four seconds of wind. Even we thought the idea sucked, but Hilda was an adult, and we were just curious…..and suckers for a couple of bucks she had promised to pay us. Our respective mothers were not impressed at all, when they came running behind the fire engines, to see what their wee lads had been up to. Word hit the main street in about five minutes, that Currie had set fire to the Alice Street apartments. No mention of Hilda. She was an adult after all…..apparently allowed such indiscretion as setting out fires on a windy day. My chums got led away by their ears, despite Hilda's explanation, and the firemen saved the building and the houses from her handiwork gone amuck. I heard one fireman say, "Hilda, what the hell were you doing, corrupting these kids?" No answer. Just a tray of cookies from her kitchen before they'd finished mopping up the blaze.

I got a pretty bad reputation because of things like this….that while I participated, I didn't actually initiate. It was that "by association" thing I'd always been warned. Like the time we decided to play "Nicky-Nicky-Nine-Doors," at my cohort's urging, and one of the perpetrators……of all knock-and-escape strategies, hid behind the family car in the driveway. This was the one guy who was going to catch the trespassers, by getting in that car, and motoring after us. I thought Don was a dead man (kid). We screamed at him to move, and got caught for saving his life. The homeowner was so thankful he hadn't run over a kid, that he just gave us a stern warning, a cookie, and told to get lost. We always got cookies in that neighborhood, even when we were in crap. I loved that about Alice Street.

At Christmas we intensified our road hockey campaign, and there would be few nightscapes on that snowy street, that you wouldn't see the moving silhouettes of an imitation NHL game. Night after night, and most weekends. We had "sliver sticks," some with the new-to-us innovation of screw-on plastic blades. We often got our sliver (blade) sticks from the arena, when they were tossed over the boards by a senior player. We'd take it if there was any potential at all, for a re-build. We hunched over a lot, as we played, because most of the recovered sticks had short shafts with a blade, the stick having been broken in the middle, and then tossed over the boards……and into our eager grasps. The sliver stick was the most dangerous, because it was usually about a half to a quarter of the actual blade, that was remaining. It could definitely poke out an eye. High sticking wasn't our thing. There was rough stuff, but not so much that any of us were ever seriously injured. Now as far as injuries go, the frozen ball in the testicles-thing was frequent and nasty. My mother would ask me why so and so had been jumping up and down in the middle of the game. "Oh, he just took one in the nuts Mom," I'd answer with the caveat, "we told him that the pain would only stop if he jumped up and down after getting hit. Now they all jump up and down when they get hit. Turns out it works."

We played in snowstorms, wind events, at forty below, on cloudy days and sunny, but my parents…..even though they weren't religious as such, insisted I not get a game going on Sunday before noon…..as this was church time. Only two of my ten or so road-hockey chums went to church. But we thought we'd honor them with afternoon-only games on Sundays. But you know, although I played organized hockey from a young age, and travelled thoughtout our region and beyond, on both town league and all-star teams, the most enjoyable hockey I would ever play, was on that tiny stretch of old Alice Street, in front of our apartment block. There was no coaching, no referees, and the play by play came from Randy Carswell, because he couldn't play without imitating Foster Hewitt. What did we care. We all had our NHL characters to imitate anyway, and Randy called the game for free. Bonus.

Now that we're being so honest with one another, there's no way I'm going to tell you everything went smoothly either……like the kind of neatly framed love-springs-eternal paintings, you see in gift shops, depicting the romance of Canadian pastime nostalgia; you know the ones, where everyone is dressed beautifully, the hockey sticks being used are full and new-looking, and that every player wore an ear to ear smile. My mother Merle had to intervene often, as she was in the best position to oversee the games from our third floor picture window. There was nothing serious, although I do remember Don Clement and I exchanging whacks to each other's chin……and respectively crying about our massive injuries. Once again, my mother would show up at the front door of the apartment with a tray of cookies and hot chocolate in mugs. That quelled emotions for awhile. Often we went from outside, to inside, where we held incredible table-top hockey tournaments that could last for days on end. I went through a lot of games, because the donnybrooks, while small, in a small room, usually resulted in someone's behind landing on the Eagle or Munro ice-surface. "So, you broke another one Ted Currie……we're not buying you a new one; that's it, you'll just have to live with the crack (or depression on the masonite)," Merle bellowed through my doorway, shaking her head about the "boys being boys" thing.

I enjoyed Christmas in Bracebridge for what it didn't have. As a transplant from city life, and the Southern Ontario race to build bigger and more imposing urban calamities, I had such a good time with ease of motion, and free time, in a town that wasn't interested in the urban pace for bigger and better. If a town had an attitude, this one, at this time, was comfortable with the size it had attained by the mid-sixties. It didn't appear anyone was terribly vexed by the fact it was a town of only 2,500 souls. It was a home town, with aspirations to be as good as possible, at what being a home town was all about. Not much more. That came later. By the late 1970's, there was more interest in what every other town was getting, in the way of urbanizing enhancements. By the mid 1980's, I was lost in my own town. I wasn't disappointed by progress, and by improvements with services and options for shopping, but moreso that many longtime citizens seemed to be forgetting about the neighborhood qualities, and quantities, that had seemed so important back then…….only a few years earlier. A lot of folks don't like me saying this, because it would appear then, there must have been some conspiracy at play, to eliminate all traces of the town it had once been…….in its own halcyon days, when sporting prowess was infinitely more important than opening a new plaza, and chopping down a forest, or bulldozing a beautiful pasture, to put up a parking lot. By the latter 1980's, frankly, I'd had enough. I fought urban sprawl as an election candidate, on two occasions, and was defeated both times, by those candidates who embraced the kind of progress we see there today. I was the keeper of nostalgia, and for most of a decade, I wrote a column for the Muskoka Advance, a give-away publication, entitled "Historic Sketches of Bracebridge," where most of the emphasis, was on capturing those years of the hometown…….because it's all that I knew…….and what I cherished of my own life and play. I got good reviews for most of it, which told me there were many kindred spirits, but when I veered into the political realm, the critics clamored that I was adversely influencing the urbanization…..of what I called "paradise." It's a lot of years down the road, and I still feel the same. I moved our family to Gravenhurst so that they could benefit from the last vestiges of small town life in the hinterland. I'm glad I did. While some will say Gravenhurst never fully came out of the 1950's and 60's, I can tell you, it had its virtues…….and my young lads had an opportunity to enjoy the hinterland within a stone's through of the so-called urban neighborhoods. Nature abounded close by, just like I remembered it as a kid, in Bracebridge. My core values have trees and ferns, and creeks and wildflowers running through their centers, and once again, I will make no apology. What I had, in Bracebridge, during my youth, was a street with very little traffic, in a sparsely populated area, with lots of wild spaces buffering the neighborhoods……that while urban in nature, were country in social / economic reality. Even in the centre of town, we lived across from a cottage resort, and we were at least two blocks from the closest waterway. If you know Bracebridge, think about it. Before you make it up Toronto Street, to the new round-about (in construction), you would have to pass Woodley Park Court, and Bamford's Store, where there were six or seven small rental cottages, and an abutting woodland for the kids to play…….and a nice evergreen backdrop to the cottages. This was rural living in town. I loved it.

In the Alice Street apartment, most of us inmates were of modest income. Hilda Weber was the kindest person on earth…..to us, because she let the rent date slide for just about everyone in that building, at one time or another. We probably had rent difficulties ten months out of twelve, for the years we dwelled there, and Hilda just said, "pay me when you can." To Hilda, food came first, and at Christmas, well, she was a good spirit, and allowed everyone some flexibility for a festive holiday. We returned the favors in-kind, because we would all do anything for this kind lady, from changing hall lightbulbs, to tending the basement floods that occurred in the fall and spring. It was a very sharing place, and it gave me my education in good neighbors, and community. For any one down on their luck, there were always care packages, that arrived on your kitchen counter, without fuss, or recognition, or any expectation of repayment. The word would go around the ten person apartment building, that one family or more, was facing a bleak Christmas, and magic would happen. Always subtle. But each contributor appreciated the fact, that if they, on the other hand, were in some immediate peril, the packages and offers of assistance, would benefit them as well. It was a nice secure feeling, even for a kid pretty much out of the loop, on "who was helping who," to be in the company of people who genuinely cared for each other's welfare. If you needed to borrow something…..sugar, flour or milk, there was no stipulation you had to pay it pack. Some never could, and were living the cheque to cheque existence that only barely covered the rent and a few groceries each month.

Many people did find the success they were seeking, and were able to move away from Alice Street, and on to better-off neighborhoods. I often wondered if, in their new digs, they ever thought about us, still at the apartment, laughing, playing together, playing practical jokes and stuff. After I began writing about those days in the local press, I got lots of calls and letters from former residents, cheerfully recalling those days at 129 Alice Street……in company of some really good friends.

I can remember one Christmas Eve in particular, that I truly felt, this apartment was the difference between misery and contentment. My father had experienced a slowdown at work, and didn't get the Christmas bonus he had counted on, to give us a proper celebration. Merle had been very worried about finances, and as a temporary bank teller, she had asked a small favor of her manager…..a small personal loan over the holidays, to be paid back in the New Year. The manager's name was Ralph Melvin, from the Bank of Nova Scotia, and he was a most generous and kind man…….a trait many in the community benefitted over the years. He patted my mother on the back, at about her lowest moment on the cusp of Christmas, and handed her an envelope of money she had requested. There were no forms to sign. He had loaned this money from his pocket, not from the bank. It was on that Christmas Eve that I genuinely felt some ease, for my parents, and the feeling it was going to be a happy occasion, when for most of that fall season, there had been arguments about money, and long, long stretches of silence in our apartment……when my parents had always been the life of the party, whether at euchre, bridge or a gathering to watch Hockey Night in Canada. Mr. Melvin had made our Christmas a happy occasion. His kindness stuck with me for all these years. I don't know what we would have done that year, that Christmas…….but I know, one way or another, the inmates of 129 Alice would have rallied……without ever being asked, to put some food on the table, some gifts under the tree.

If you read my material for a dozen or so blogs, you will come to the conclusion, that I'm a staunch, unyielding defender of hometown values, and community pride. Well, it can all be traced back to a very unassuming apartment, in a working class neighborhood, with nice folks, with a modest, pervasive attitude about money, being nothing more than a means to an end……not to get all worked up about. It was the neighborhood that made me a responsible citizen, because every one who lived on that block, could get a hold of my parents within minutes, to tell them of my latest exploits. There was no immunity. Their involvement probably saved my life, and oh so many others.

On the Christmas Eve, of which I speak, I sat out on the landing, for a long while that night, looking up at a large photograph that hung on the wall above the staircase. It was a picture of several deer standing against a beautiful snow-clad woodland. I studied that picture for a long time, as I listened carefully to the confluence of Christmas good cheer going on around me……even the laughter of my own parents, which was a rarity that season. There were cakes and pies being baked up, the wafting, intoxicating aroma of ginger wafting the hallways. There was the sound of televisions, radios, and phonographs, and it all should have been an unkindly din…..yet I found it as soothing as a Christmas slumber, in the neverland of expectation and adventure. In a sort of festive-coma, I was startled by a neighbor lady, who had stuck a plate of still-hot gingerbread cookies under my nose. "Merry Christmas Mr. Currie," she said. Nothing more needed to be said. I was being embraced by every home value I thought important in my young life. As it has remained important in my life, and my family's, ever since. Simpler times, happier days, when neighborhoods were communities….where your home was situated. It was where you lived….truly lived.

I heard someone recently referring to their big new house, as well……"it's a comfortable place to hang our hats."

Then it's just not a home!!!

Up there on Alice Street, we lived humble, had no pretense about our place in society, there was no reason to boast, or be insincere with one-another, and when you hung up your hat, you were enveloped in home atmosphere……despite the fact it was a ten unit apartment, in a lesser income part of town, where spare money was tossed into a jar on the counter…….to be used, just in case, someone needed it more than you.

Merry Christmas, one and all.

2011-12-05T17:20:00.001-08:00

CHRISTMASES PAST IN BRACEBRIDGE

ROAD HOCKEY, ALICE STREET, MANITOBA STREET WANDERINGS, AND THE TOWN I MISS

I BEGAN IN EARLY NOVEMBER, WRITING A SERIES OF "THANK YOU" BLOGS FOR MY "GRAVENHURST SITE", WITH EMPHASIS ON THE CHRISTMAS SEASON…..ONE OF MY MOST PROLIFIC TIMES OF THE YEAR. I BEGAN THE SERIES FOR ONE VERY GOOD REASON. WHILE I HAVE A LOT OF COPY WRITTEN ABOUT BRACEBRIDGE, AS MY HOMETOWN GROWING UP, I HAD NEXT TO NOTHING WRITTEN ABOUT MY PRESENT HOMETOWN…..THE ONE THAT HAS BEEN SO PERFECT FOR THE WRITER-ME. WHEN OUR FAMILY MOVED TO GRAVENHURST, FROM BRACEBRIDGE, IN THE LATE 1980'S, MY MAIN CONCERN WAS ABOUT MY ABILITY TO COMPOSE IN MY NEW DIGS. IN MY FINAL YEARS IN BRACEBRIDGE, I'D HAD SOME LESS THAN POSITIVE HOME SITUATIONS, THAT JUST DIDN'T HELP ME WRITE. AS A CAREER WRITER AND FORMER STAFF REPORTER WITH THE LOCAL PRESS, I CAN WRITE ON COMMAND, AND WORKING TO DEADLINE IS STILL AN OBSESSION. BUT WRITING OUT OF PASSION…..GEEZ, I WAS RUNNING ON EMPTY. I COULD WRITE FOR THE PAPER BUT WRITING FOR MYSELF, FOR OTHER PURPOSES, THESE DWELLINGS JUST DIDN'T INSPIRE ME. SO WHEN THE TRUE TESTS CAME, IN OUR GRAVENHURST ABODE, I WAS PLEASANTLY SURPRISED AT THE WAY BIRCH HOLLOW, OUR MODEST HOMESTEAD, INSPIRED ME DAILY, TO CREATE UNTIL MIND AND BODY WERE TAPPED-OUT. SO I DECIDED THAT IT WAS IMPORTANT TO PAY TRIBUTE TO MY SOUTH MUSKOKA HOMETOWN, AND WRITE SOME STORIES ABOUT THE REASON WHY……I FEEL SO ENTHRALLED TO SIT DOWN HERE IN MY ARCHIVES OFFICE, AND USE THIS VIEW OUT ONTO THE GARDENS, TO MY CREATIVE ADVANTAGE. IN TRIBUTE TO THE KINDNESSES OF GRAVENHURST, IN SO MANY WAYS, I DECIDED TO CALL THE SERIES "CHRISTMAS IN GRAVENHURST," WHICH IS A DAY TO DAY JOURNAL OF OPINION, OBSERVATIONS, OBJECTIONS AND OVERVIEWS…..JUST TO BORROW A FEW "O" WORDS TO DESCRIBE THE BLOG'S INTENT. IT IS A SINCERE THANK YOU, DESPITE THE CRITIQUE OF SOME LOCAL POLITICAL ISSUES, FOR THE COMFORTS AND HOSPITALITY OUR FAMILY HAS BEEN SHOWN, FOR MORE THAN TWENTY YEARS NOW…….AND HEARTFELT RECOGNITION ABOUT HOW THIS HAS GREASED THE FLOW OF CREATIVITY. I'VE ONLY STOPPED WRITING ONCE, FOR ABOUT SIX MONTHS IN LATE 1990, WHILE I WAS RE-VAMPING OUR ANTIQUE BUSINESS WHICH WE STILL OPERATED IN BRACEBRIDGE. I COULDN'T EVEN BEGIN TO ESTIMATE THE HUGE VOLUME OF WRITTEN MATERIAL PRODUCED HERE AT BIRCH HOLLOW, BUT SUFFICE TO SAY, IT WAS A GOOD DECISION TO MOVE HERE BACK IN 1989, WHEN I WAS AT THAT PROVERBIAL CROSS ROADS…….WHETHER TO QUIT WRITING ALTOGETHER, OR FIND SOME PLACE, OR MEANS, TO REVITALIZE WHAT HAD BECOME STALE AND PREDICTABLE.

YOU CAN VIEW THESE SITES BY SEARCHING FOR MY GRAVENHURST BLOG.

AS FOR MY FIRST HOMETOWN, AFTER MOVING NORTH FROM BURLINGTON, IN 1966, I WANT TO SHARE A SIMILAR SERIES OF BLOGS, ABOUT MY EARLY YEARS IN BRACEBRIDGE…….A SMALL TOWN THAT CERTAINLY GAVE ME A GOOD AND PROSPEROUS YOUTH, FULL OF SPORT AND ADVENTURE. IT'S WHERE I ARRIVED AT ABOUT AGE ELEVEN OR SO, GRADE FIVE, AT BRACEBRIDGE PUBLIC SCHOOL, AND WHERE I WOULD GO ON, IN SCHOOL TO MEET MY WIFE SUZANNE, HAVE OUR BOYS, ANDREW AND ROBERT, AND BURY OUR RESPECTIVE PARENTS IN MORE RECENT HISTORY. WE HAVE A LOT OF HISTORY INVESTED IN BRACEBRIDGE, AND OUR FAMILY IS THANKFUL FOR THE YEARS WE RESIDED THERE, AND ENJOYED SO MANY WONDERFUL FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS, WHEREVER WE LIVED……FROM MANITOBA STREET, QUEBEC STREET, ONTARIO STREET, OR GOLDEN BEACH ROAD. AS A KID, MY LIFE WAS ON ALICE STREET. I WAS SO THRILLED WITH THE MEMORIES OF THOSE YEARS, I WROTE A BOOK ABOUT IT BACK IN 2000. AND NOW, FOR MY FAMILY, I WANT TO MAKE SURE THEY WILL HAVE THIS KEEPSAKE COLLECTION…..TO KNOW A LITTLE BIT MORE ABOUT THEIR OLD DAD…….WHEN HE WAS THE LEAD RAPSCALLION, IN A LOT OF NEIGHBORHOOD LEGENDARY MAYHAM. I WILL BE COMMENCING THE SERIES IN THE NEXT SEVERAL DAYS, SO PLEASE REJOIN ME, IF YOU WANT TO KNOW A LITTLE BIT MORE ABOUT A SMALL ONTARIO TOWN LONG BEFORE IT GOT ITS FIRST BOX STORE…..OR ROUND-ABOUT, OR CRYSTAL PALACE……WHAT I CALL THE NEW COMBINATION REC. CENTRE AND HIGH SCHOOL. SEE YOU THEN.

2011-11-03T17:09:00.001-07:00

ALONE, THOUGHTFUL, IN A SOLITUDE OF SO MUCH INSPIRATION

There is a warm, misty environs here at Birch Hollow this early afternoon. It will rain hard for several moments, and the wind will pull hard at the rest of the leaves, still hanging to the overhead boughs, and then, as quickly as it arrived, it will all calm and the rain turn to a wafting mist across the lowland of The Bog. I come here several times a day, for a wee respite, and to connect with the place that inspires me the most these days. I suppose places like this, have inspired me for most of my life.

Growing up, first in Burlington, Ontario, in the late 1950's, I had the full benefit of a modest little ravine property, where the shallow path of Ramble Creek wound around thickly wooded corners, obscured by vines and small shrubs, snaking down to the shore of Lake Ontario. We lived in a well populated older neighborhood, where there were four apartments, and two other smaller, multi-family townhouses, and numerous single family residences. But as a kid, loving nature, I had no interest playing in backyards, sideyards, in recreation rooms, on driveways or in the huge swath of land where the power line towers stood on rock foundations. I found all the opportunity I needed, squirreling down that embankment, off the beaten path, into the low-light basin of creek and brush, limestone bridges, huge suckers in the deep pools, and black and silver smelt by the bucket-loads in the early spring. It was a natural paradise. It wasn't a huge acreage but to a kid, it seemed massive and enormously protective of all its inhabitants, and I dare say, some other guests like the occasional passing hobo. Let's just say, when my mother let me go outside, she always knew where to find me. And when I came home for lunch or dinner, she could tell if I'd been close to the lake. The closer to Lake Ontario, at water level, the more I'd smell like fish. At that time, Lake Ontario pollution killed an alarming amount of fish, and I can remember waterfront parks smelling terrible, especially if you were having a picnic. I trust this has changed for the better.

When our family moved to Muskoka, in 1965, I couldn't believe my good fortune. What had been a several acre paradise, on the embankment of Ramble Creek, was now unbelievably huge for a city-raised kid, and I couldn't have been happier to call Bracebridge, Ontario, my new home. I had a number of favorite haunts, back then; The Grove, The Sandpit (behind our Alice Street apartment) and Bamford's Woods, directly across from 129 Alice, which was the backside of a small in-town cottage resort, complete with two mom and pop variety stores….one on each corner. The tiny woods, with a myriad of little paths, became the most important place in my childhood. Other than the roof over my head, of course. I've written about this many times but I always feel I haven't represented it as enthusiastically as I should. It comes down to the reality, I was a loner as a kid, as I am as a writer today. It doesn't mean I didn't have friends, because I had lots. I was involved in sports throughout the four seasons, and I found it comfortable to play almost anywhere throughout the 3,000 citizen strong Muskoka community. In the city, my mother Merle didn't allow me quite as much access to the wider neighborhoods, as she did in our new hometown. It was a safe and wonderful place to grow up. It convinced me to raise my own kids in this same bailiwick, split between family homes in Bracebridge and Gravenhurst, and I married a local girl, Suzanne, from Windermere…..an outdoor lover, as well, who as a child, admittedly, found entertainment in the abutting Lake Rosseau woodlands…..moreso than depending on mates to play with.

I have long been a woodland-wanderer, and whether I'm happy, discontent, impatient or angry, it will usually only take a few minutes of sojourn, in these wild, but familiar places, before I've settled down to enjoy……rather, celebrate, the inspirational vantage point….. of being a full-fledged "watcher-in-the-woods." When I found out, a few years ago now, about a bid to sell-off an historic park, in Bracebridge, known as "Jubilee," the hackles rose like spikes. Although this park wasn't a woodland, and didn't have a creek running through it, the reality the town politicians, and assorted movers and shakers, decided it was expendable open space, made me furious. As they had destroyed the tiny green belt, I knew as Bamford's Woods, and built upon the old sand-pit on Alice Street, plus gobbling up most of The Grove for urban residential, I couldn't understand why local councillors didn't appreciate the double jeopardy they were playing-at, knowing their future urban densities were going to increase in this urban transitional neighborhood. There were kids just like me, needing open space to unwind….to play, to explore, to have…..and to hold, to inspire, motivate, and enthrall. Here was this wonderful little town in the magnificent hinterland of Ontario, copying the same urban mistakes that had been well documented, and written about, experienced by thousands of urban jungles in North America;…..as unwise for healthy and safe future neighborhoods, now, in the heart of Muskoka, manifesting in the modern planning of the new era-town. They wanted the park, best known for its history with the Agricultural Society, and about a trillion games of baseball, over several centuries, to build a satellite university campus and a residence, which has just recently been opened. Despite having many other viable options, as far as properties were concerned, the town and the university pulled a lot of support their way, and despite heavy and well presented arguments, from park supporters, the wonderful old community open space was sacrificed and built-upon.

I remember thinking, while listening to the passionate speeches for the development, about the many times I'd used this park, and felt it was such an important place in the middle of a thriving little burg, in central Muskoka. I was proud to live in a town that would have open space like this set aside for posterity…..for all our mutual recreation, social and cultural thrown into the pleasant mix. There were many of us who felt the project was being situated in the wrong place. That as densities increase in the urban core, with multi-family buildings and apartments, open space was going to be ever-more important in the future. While the town had thrown out the plum, of establishing a new playing field, on the outskirts of town, it wasn't a fair trade except to baseballers, who had access to motor vehicles, or kids with bicycles and a willingness for a husky ride. I was living in Gravenhurst, at the time, so admittedly I felt out of place making a major presentation to the Ontario Municipal Board Hearing, which ruled in favor of the project……neighbors and park users be damned. It was the first time I'd ever seen a council unanimous on such a contentious issue, and that bothered me a great deal. Surely there was one of the individuals, who at some time, as a child, had played in this same wonderful park, and thought to themselves….."I love this town!" Instead of feeling hopeful about the development, the first earth-movers on site, brought a tear to my eye……that a town would ever sacrifice something so important as open urban space……a park…..a gift to town so many decades earlier, by someone who recognized the value of a recreational, cultural, social place to gather in celebration. Sorry, but not matter what they do on that site today, it will never replace the modest, subtle contribution that Jubillee Park represented for all those years, to a present population apparently unconcerned about urban densities, and adequate parkland for their sons and daughters to play. Not just on the outskirts that require transportation to get to, but just a short hop, skip, jump and amble from their respective homes.

I frequently warn my new hometown neighbors, especially councillors, about not following Bracebridge's lead in this manner. And to respect their urban open spaces for the future. To anticipate the problems of creating densely populated neighborhoods without adequate parkland. Once it's gone, and built upon…..well, what earthly value is regret. I don't know what I would do, if The Bog, this wondrous green belt in our present neighborhood, had been sacrificed several years ago, as the town fully intended, to bring in more residential housing by in-filling an important, water quality dependent "filtering" lowland. We came too close to disaster, to ignore the possibility, a future council might re-visit the issue to accommodate more residential development. If I'm not around, my boys are ready to take up the fight, to protect this important resource.

When I think about the problems of this old earth, and the abuses it has faced over the centuries, and the pollution that is threatening the future well-being of the citizenry, it would seem a most appropriate time to amalgamate and propel ourselves forcefully, at the precarious issue of trying to undo the damage that threatens to shorten or eliminate our lives. My impression is that education is still woefully lacking in outdoor studies, and in politics, well, we're not seeing the kind of wide-sweeping reforms needed, to make amends to a badly damaged eco-system. But when it comes to making headway, and assisting developers, it doesn't seem a shortfall at all to sacrifice farmland……what do we need it for anyway? It's hard to be optimistic about the well being of our open spaces today, with the knowledge of population increases, and resource shrinkage, and a free market that doesn't seem to operate with an abundance of conscience, in the pursuit of wealth.

No, little bits of urban parkland, green belts, lowlands, farmland……are just opportunities to exploit. Watch for the demise of one near you. But the folly, is that it will all end badly, and folks who are respectful of the environment, and the importance of green space and parkland, will be left to find something else to adore and celebrate. As I check-out the community press, anxious to see if any other initiative to fell these woods, is budding within the ranks of local government, or listening for the sound of a chainsaw getting a head start on the clearing, I still read, week after week, about so many other natural calamities in the making……and I'm left to worry, that greed will consume us all eventually, by the reactive tension of backswing, from the razor-sharp whip of the double-edged sword.

I don't know how many kids, up on Bracebridge's Alice Street, struggle with the shortage of open space, and parkland. I have know way of knowing how many youngsters pine for a refuge like the one I had, growing up, whether it was in the City of Burlington, or on Bracebridge's Hunts Hill, where there was no public park in the 1960's-70's; just a kind hearted gent named Fred Bamford, who allowed us kids to play in his woodlot. In 2011, there is no public park in this neighborhood, and nary a shred of open space. To get to a park, on that rise of urban landscape, it requires a hefty hike, across Highway 11, and nerves of steel to navigate the high-traffic business corridor. I'm told there will soon be a round-a-bout to help them. Right! As for Jubilee Park…..well, they can't build on our memories, of what it used to be.

As a parent, as a businessman, a writer, and a kid once, I benefitted more than I can ever describe, because of those centrally located open spaces, whether park or green space; just as my kids have benefitted so wonderfully, growing up in Gravenhurst……despite having to fight in order to save what we have today. The Bog. Pay attention to what green spaces, and sacrifice of farmland and woodland are being planned in the future, for more of what we don't need. Urban sprawl isn't in anyone's best interest……well, that's not quite true is it? The developer's profitability. In a nutshell. Development in the right place at the right time. Orderly growth with sensitivity to what the population needs. And they need parkland. We all need parkland. We all need to see greenspace, as it reminds us of the way it used to be……and could be again, if there was a will to conserve and protect.

2011-11-02T04:59:00.001-07:00

MUSKOKA IN TRANSITION - A LOVER OF THE CHANGING SEASON, I SURRENDER

I have only just now arrived home, after a refreshing jaunt with pet in tow, over to the woodland across the lane…..the restorative wild place, with the well trodden path that winds with obscured corners, down into the frozen hollow of The Bog. I have sat here today, at this keyboard, looking longingly out my frosted office window pane, thinking it a sort of punishment, to be inside, and not ambling down the lane toward some type of profound, natural enlightenment. I have vowed every few moments of pause, to grasp up the dog leash, and take Bosko for a walk. As a writer, my greatest fear, other than getting too lazy to walk at all, is that I might interrupt an important story-line, or rich new vein of creative enterprise, by taking a break. It keeps me here confined far too long, but unfortunately it has been a life-time relationship with angst about failing, disappearing inspiration.

Each time I arrive at the pause I've been hoping for, the right punctuation to meet the perfect state of preparedness, I don my jacket, my most comfortable strolling shoes, and call my faithful partner to my side. Today provided a wonderful environs to wander through the smoky woodlands, and although the heavy fog of earlier has long since dissipated, there is still a hazy horizon, that makes this place so wonderfully haunted and alluring to the writer in its midst. For much of the day, I occupy that chair by the window, and tap on that contraption upon the desk that you can only barely make-out in silhouette. When the weather is vicious, and the rain and sleet smack at the window pane, as if to slap the voyeur to attention, I tremble a wee bit, at the thought of being in harm's way of raging autumn storm. Even the dog, curled on top of my feet, will, on these days, hearing the wind beating at the old house, politely but insistantly decline a walk until later……when wind and rain abate.

Yet there is only so much you can experience visually, and I feel absolutely compelled to immerse myself in the landscape environs about which I write so frequently, and am absorbed so deeply. My moods are very much tied to the prevailing conditions here, and when the winter turns on its charm, there is a definite bundling of observational affections, moreso than the typical wanderlust allure of those sun-bathed, early fall days, when standing on the brink of the hollow is warm and restorative. Today has been one of those days, and I regret not having ventured out more often, and sooner, as it is warned, that the end of the week will bring a new stormfront and possibly the first snow of the fledgling season.

I have written in alcoves on quiet beachfronts in Florida, on the fringe of Robin Hood's forest in Nottingham, England, from a nook in old Toronto, old London, and on the shores of the Muskoka lakes, where gentle lapping of the water, paced my copious notes, made about the truly great places on earth to wax poetic. But it is this place, above the Gravenhurst moor, that I have invested most of my time, watching over these enchanted woods and frost-silvered bullrushes, that waver, like willows in an English meadow, by the scented sweep of gentle air from horizon hill to sunlit pasture. I have found an inspirational place to work. I am home. I have a dog wrapped around my feet, and two cats now stretching on my lap…..the other is sitting up on the window sill, swatting at water droplets falling on the other side of the glass.

There is no danger, actual or perceived, of running out of things to write about, here at Birch Hollow, tucked so pleasantly into the ever-fascinating lakeland of South Muskoka.

2011-10-24T17:31:00.001-07:00

NEGOTIATIONS UNDERWAY FOR A NEW MUSKOKA BLOG COLLABORATION - WHAT SHALL IT BE CALLED? MUSKOKA GOTHIC? THE MUSKOKA LIAR'S CLUB? TWO WILD AND CRAZY GUYS?

I've suggested a writing collaboration with family friend and local author, Van Newell, the resident king of Bodenville…..a fictional, "all-kinds-of-stuff-going-on-there" bailiwick near the actual hamlet of Uffington, in the near east climes of Muskoka…..a short motor coach ramble from the main street of Bracebridge. Van and his family are modern day homesteaders, and he has written of his adventures in both a weekly column in the local press, and authored two successful books dealing with Bodenville, and the life of home-made soap, free of the entanglements of hydro, sewers, and hot tubs…..and hot water requires more than turning on a faucet. I have long considered myself the kind of stock that could do the same kind of back-to-nature thing. I am after all, of that United Empire Loyalist stock, of the fighting Irish and English, that settled this country when it all looked like Bodenville. I've always felt I was one decision, and only one, from taking to the woods, as Thoreau took to his cabin on Walden Pond. You know what, it's funny how the reluctance to make that particular decision….that one lowly decision, can keep one in the luxury I so deserve. And that's not to mention the fail-safe here, that should I get drunk by chance, and load up the car to join Van on the homestead, Suzanne would rescue me from what could only turn out to be grievous injury to body and mind. Not that going to Bodenville is a bad thing, just an adventure I'd never get used to as a lifestyle.

Van is a good writer, and an interesting story spinner, and I've felt for years like we should get together…..not as homesteaders, but as authors, and put together a series of blogs about our lives in Muskoka for all of these years. Van and are both graduates of York University, in Toronto, (at around the same time of the late 1970's), and we both got jobs at Black Creek Pioneer Village after graduating. I never showed up on my first day of work because I found out what "water-toting" meant at an historic site…..and how many hours it would involve with a yoke and two pails. I'm not too sure how it worked out for Van but maybe he'll write about it, if I can convince him to team-up for a new blog series this winter. Parallels, other than we both live now in Muskoka, include my two boys, Andrew and Robert, playing in his band, The Bodenville Flyers….a folksy little band that has been playing around the region for a decade or more. My lads are the newbies with the group. The band often practices at their main street music shop here in Gravenhurst, and the Flyers play in all our fundraisers…..the ones we put on for the Salvation Army Food Bank.

Negotiations are ongoing, and I plan to bait him with a really catchy title, as the headline suggests. I'd even be open to one of his own titles, just to seal the deal. We've got a lot of things to say….to write…..arguments to make, fun to bestow, and readers to win over. We both love our region, and are proud to call Muskoka home. We don't agree on too much, and we like to square-off occasionally when pissing into the wind seems the appropriate action to a week of unrelated frustrations. We are most often "point and counter-point" people, and we think diversity of opinion is good for mankind, as long as it doesn't erupt in war. As for any religious battle that might break out…..I don't think we need to worry too much about a holy war.

While everybody and their brother's uncle is defining what it's like to be Muskokan, these days, some being sickly sweet about it….or lacking of sensibility entirely, Van and I have a fair bit of experience in the field of opinionation……especially about our home region. Van the homesteader, me the historian. Van the clever story teller, and soothsayer, Ted, the half-political animal, who likes to stir up controversy, cause it feels so good, could collaborate on a real dandy if it ever becomes fact.

Like I noted earlier, negotiations are underway. He's undoubtedly holding out for more money. I told him there isn't any. He doesn't believe me. I explained to him that all he could expect as payment, for regular contributions, was a hug of heartfelt friendship, and some apple crisp Suzanne bakes regularly. I'm hopeful that will swing the deal.

2011-10-21T07:03:00.001-07:00

THE WOODLANDS, MUSKOKA, AND THE GREAT ESCAPE

It is not a frivolous romantic notion, to think of this mist-laden woodland, as a healing place. When I walk this soft pathway to the interior, here at Birch Hollow, it's as if the land buffers around me, as if to offer the most basic shelter for the anxious soul…..the pensive heart. That despite what the world offers in harsh daily news, here it is irrelevant for these quiet, gentle moments of contemplation. As if nothing is more important, at that precise moment, than celebrating the strange, pervasive kindred spirit, pulling us toward an understanding of life and death…..the seasons, the realities of late autumn, these falling leaves all around me, and the horizon winter, soon to hit with gale-force upon this lakeland forest. What I watched this morning, on the television news, is no more than the final burst of electronic light, when the set is shut-off, and your eyes still show the light intensity, with blotches of shadow that seem so contradictory to what had just occurred. It is brightest before the end. It is the nature of the body and the environs that proves more commanding than electronic intrusions. This woodland trail is well packed down from my footfall over these many years. So many ventures when the monitor screen seemed overpowering, and illogical to the creative process. It has all regained sensibility and proportion, when after only a few steps, and a pause or two to enjoy the view, that the realization seeps back into the soul, this is, despite its realities of life and death, a healing place for the kindred spirit. A respite from the rigors of news-watching and a reality obsession, I acquired from my years as a reporter. I have that fear and trembling of knowing things I honestly wish I didn't, because of being solution driven……..knowing there's so much, one can only watch in transition, the carnage in its wake, simply unavoidable even to the keenest, unflinching mortal. As I worry about altering a life here, by destroying habitat while I walk, it is all part of the etching of time, as evolution, changing nature by necessity of survival.

Nature has its brutal side. But it is this gentle side, I witness on these daily walks, that appeals to the weary soul; this salvation-seeking watcher-in-the-woods, who would rather encamp here amidst this natural evolution, where like the fallen leaf, I will be part of the soil that feeds, in perpetuity, the welfare of these guardian pines, venerable maples, and leaning birches……and all the myriad creatures interacting beneath my gaze.

I willingly surrender to the Muskoka woodlands this morning. They are alluring and haunted. There is the roar of a new wind, rising in bursts over the bay below, and the intrusive, yet comforting sound of old leaves, gently hitting the forest floor. Their wafting, spiraling decline back to earth, isn't unsettling, or depressing, as the watcher celebrated the change of seasons since childhood…….cherishing the arrival of winter and its boundless opportunities. There is a calmness in this death of the season. This harbinger of change, is hued golden by nostalgia, and harkened to attention by the romantic heart, recalling the sojourns of the early autumn, and the August vigils on the point above The Bog, to watch the late summer rain, advance the harvest. The reminiscences of the spring regeneration I felt in my heart, as renewal and rebirth of expectation. As I fondly recall the visit of yesterday morning, I equally celebrate the discoveries of this morning, and the expectations yet, of tomorrow and the day after. It is as poetic as any justice administered. I'm not asked for my permission, to herald these changes. I am but mortal, and as much a part of this vista of nature, as every leaf that began its tenure as a tight green bud on a barren branch. As I have walked this pathway toward The Bog each day, this year, I feel myself, as one of these still-clinging leaves, awaiting the right moment to be relieved of my hold onto existence, and life, to be rewarded with this magical fall to earth where I shall fertilize the roots of all the trees and ferns, wildflowers and weeds, that thrive here in the spring……nurturing life while being a part of it…..shading what ground, and life forms, that require shading to survive.

What great enterprise this nature affords our grand and intricate existence, and our part in the intriguing cycle of life.

I might enter this path with a profound sadness, about the disasters on the planet. Yet I have never once, lasted in this sanctuary more than a few moments, before I am pleasantly, and so subtly removed to its kindly spirit, where one loses fear of the inevitable, and settles to the intricate evolution of life through its stages. There can be no sadness in this enlightenment, of our time of life, our long or short stay within this mortal coil, and what we must learn of the seasons that etch upon, soul to soul, with the alluring revelation, that it is, despite its fiercest demands, a glorious existence of adventure and discovery. As if standing by my own childhood, and teenage-hood, adult and mid-life, and feeling quite contented, all has been celebrated despite the perception, and realities, it hasn't been, by mortal estimation, a perfect or even near-perfect story of acquired maturity.

There is a wafting, patch-work mist, passing over the lowland, at this moment, and a silvery drizzle quietly coating the hinterland. There are few sounds here today, except the occasional rub of a leaf hitting off the evergreens, and then settling upon the soggy, colored ground. I listen for the sound of any footfall, or stirring of the bushes, anticipating, as I always do, that I'm not alone in these haunted woods. On occasion, a neighbor might decide to walk their dog a short distance down this path, or a child might wander close, to pick-up some of these red and yellow leaves for a school project. I have already seen deer tracks impressed down into the mud, and there's evidence a bear has been digging at a bug-infested log some time earlier. Despite the fact this is a quiet place now, it is always an active acreage with wildlife, and the general life and times of all forests through time. Yet despite what I perceive as a busy place, it is, in human terms, an important solitude from the intrusive, hammering of human environs; be that of home and town, and travel between the stations of the day, the hour, the moment, from heartbeat to heartbeat, the raw, savage pursuit of normal existence. Pay cheque to pay cheque. The dwellers of the modern world. It is little wonder this pathway into solitude, is so well travelled and packed down. I could not survive this mortal pursuit, without the partnership with this wild place……the forgiving, nonjudgmental woodlands, that allow the voyeur to freely explore the universe, without having to leave the earth.

I will soon arrive home, to jot down notes, about the discovery of this morning, in the haunted place, The Bog. What haunts me most, is the reality we all nearly lost this healing place, when our hometown decided there was more to be gained by developing the acreage for housing, and infilling the lowlands to facilitate new buildings, and parking lots where the bullrushes today, are painted silver with rain, and blow back and forth in the wind, as a poem line by line. There is always that persistent fear, a bulldozer and chainsaw might come down this same path, where I wander and ponder life and times, and strip this enchanted place to its bare bones…….in pursuit of that mortal folly, believing man to be superior to its maker.

To my last hike down this trail, I will never abandon this tiny urban oasis, or the creatures that habitat beneath the outstretched evergreens and occupy the earth, below the blanket of leaves from the centuries. Protecting nature, protects ourselves.

Having sat here now for a few moments, to warm myself from the chill outdoors, and having an old dog resting against my feet, a cat having jumped onto my lap, I can hear the rattle of that new wind, hitting the hillside of The Bog, bringing with it that profound sense of impending transition, as winter unfurls its intent of occupation. As unsettling as it may be, to part with a cherished season, I feel the excitement of change, none the less, that with one season's decline, an enchanted re-generation of an old friend is about to manifest……..a friend of this writer…….the winter of my life.

2011-10-02T16:40:00.001-07:00

WHAT A COINKIE DINKIE -

I FINALLY GET CLOSURE TO AN EDITOR'S GIG CUT SHORT-

When I strolled up Dominion Street, in Bracebridge, on the day I became editor…..of the oldest newspaper in town, (early 1980's) I remember pausing to look up at the iron letters on the front of The Herald-Gazette office, and thinking out loud….this is the best day of my life!

Even as a snotty nosed, dirty-faced kid, running around this old town, I had looked upon that newspaper office, one block from the main drag, and thought it was my destiny to one day take the helm as editor. I was a writer in residence up on Alice Street, even in public school, when I began writing adventure stories to impress the creative writing component of public school english. I then moved on to a spirited writing residency in the former brick house, built by Dr. Peter McGibbon, earlier in the century. It was a particularly haunted abode, in a good way, and it was a hugely prolific period in my budding career. I was inspired by everything. They were all challenges to cherish. I couldn't wait to finish one project before launching a second and third.

I seemed to always be writing or planning out a script or war-themed story, although my first public piece was a short play about the curious, risque interactions of teenage friends on the brink of new and exciting discoveries. Well it got some laughs, and I made a few of my girlfriends blush, but it established me, amongst my associates, as a writer wannabe. So much in fact, that one of the main characters, and my best friend at the time, swiped the manuscript and refused to return it……believing that if I did become a well known writer-kind, this would be a valuable first edition…..

So when I strolled up to that Dominion Street newspaper office, on that spot of urban landscape since the late 1800's, I was too over-whelmed frankly, to know how to express myself about the promotion……so I drank like a writer and lived the life of a newsy…….like our hero, columnist Paul Rimstead, of the newly launched Toronto Sun. Rimmer was a local lad, who had the same trials and tribulations at the local high school, as we (the other writers on staff) had endured, but had still gone on to the fame and glory as a key player in the Canadian daily press. Rimstead led the way for many young, full of ambition reporters. I drank to my success. And I wrote morning, noon and night. With a few beers to keep me awake.

I arrived at Muskoka Publications in the winter of 1979, working first as a reporter for the Muskoka Lakes-Georgian Bay Beacon. I did fill-in work for The Herald-Gazette when there was a manpower shortage, and I managed to sneak a few news photographs and some shared articles into the bigger newspaper of our small network, and one fire scene flick that I was enormously proud. I had to spend the whole night at a structure fire to get the shot, but I can't explain the pure joy of seeing that action photograph, on the front page, in that week's edition.

I worked hard to earn a name for myself in the writing business generally, and it wasn't long before the publisher decided I deserved a step-up in the organization. When I was offered a chance to join The Herald-Gazette full time, as news editor, and then editor after a year's experience, the rush was long and tingling. It was most of what I had wanted as a young lad, returning home after his stint at university. The only thing missing in my life was a partner, some kids, a dog and cat, and well, a small, tidy little house to raise our family. Before the end of the 1980's I had it all. We were broke but happy with our professions……a writer and a teacher (Suzanne). We had two wonderful boys, Andrew first, and then wee Robert. A dog named Alf and two cats…..one was Fester and the other Animal. It was a happy beginning. Contenting and exciting at the same time.

Then we bought a newer house, and then flipped it, for a mover-upper in the Town of Gravenhurst. It was all coming together. And I never once entered the building on Dominion Street, that I didn't look up at those beautiful metal letters, adorning the white stucco, of the place I loved to work.

Well, you know what they say. It wasn't about my ability to write, or my willingness to work long, hard and suffer the low pay I was being offered. I always wrote more than we needed for each edition, and our paper, because of a great staff of reporters, made The Herald-Gazette a keen competitor in a tough market. After working as a feature editor for our sister publication, The Muskoka Sun, as well as The Muskoka Advance, and The Herald-Gazette, from my home office……where I was able to look after Andrew in those early years of adjustment to new family responsibilities, absence from the day to day operation of the paper, put me at a serious disadvantage to compete with those who wanted my job. After several years of working from a home office, the in-office competition was too severe to keep me in the top position I had enjoyed during those halcyon days.

I rejected the down-grade imposed by the new owner, and could not stomach the reduced hours and diminished opportunities. I left the best job I'd ever had……and I did have many regrets. It had been a dream job…..but you know what happens to dreams?

I've been bitter about this for many years. The Herald-Gazette ceased publication about a decade later, and the name was removed forever from local publishing. What a terrible reality that was for a long-in-the-tooth dreamer like me. I had always thought there might be a day I would make a come-back………you know, be invited back into the newsroom, to re-invent the glory years of what we (reporters) used to call…..with affection, "The Hurly Gazelle."

It never happened. My aspirations died with the closure. And I've never been back in that neighborhood of Dominion Street, that I haven't glanced upon that building, with great longing, looking for the letters that once graced its old facade……and reminded me I was in the right place. I was hungover a lot in those days, so it was nice to have those letters to situate me, when the buildings all had the same texture of blur.

This week, at a local second hand shop, I found a box containing some old, rusted metal letters. I was intrigued. Specially the simple note on the side of the box that read, "Metal letters from Dominion Street - The Herald-Gazette." When I met Suzanne, holding the box, with the bottom falling through, she said it was as if "a Christmas morning……seeing a child with the best gift ever."

I now own, as a matter of so much irony, the actual letters of my newspaper's name, that I glanced happily upon, for all those years. It cost me $15 for the box. They are now stretched on the side of my driveway, for guests to read. I plan on getting a nice bit of pine to fasten them eventually. They remind me of some great days, and wonderful folks I worked with……some who have passed away since my days as editor.

Maybe they, as individual letters, are a strange form of closure. But when it is spelled out, "The Herald-Gazette," it makes it all so different, and I feel connected again, to a front line news job I had always wanted. I will never forgive those who treated me badly in those years, but this is the kind of trophy that makes a good stab at restoration of good thoughts, about good times…..despite the cruel realities we encounter through our respective lives.

I never stopped writing despite my disassociation with the newspaper. I suppose that really bothered some of my adversaries. And that's always been a sweet fancy of mine, that they couldn't dictate a writer's passion, by simply cutting the payroll……and one of the most eager and respectful editors they ever had.

I will think of those days again, when I look at these familiar letters that meant so much, for so long, and apparently……still entice me to write, and write, and write.

Whoever dumped those letters, along my hunting and gathering pathway…….thank you so much. I have a feeling the irony has a lot more twists and turns yet to come.

2011-09-27T06:45:00.001-07:00

MUSKOKA BEYOND THE POLITICS, IS A GREAT PLACE TO LIVE, WORK AND WRITE

I have resided in Muskoka since the mid 1960's. I've worked in the region as a writer since the late 1970's. I became a regional historian by the early 1980's. By the late 1980's my partner Suzanne and I had celebrated our first child Andrew, then Robert, and by golly, we thought it would be neat to become antique dealers on the side. That was before we'd hit the 1990's. As a retrospective, I am thankful my parents, Merle and Ed, decided to move to Muskoka in the 1960's. I left city life and it has felt right ever since. When I write about my former hometown, Bracebridge, and my present home place, Gravenhurst, I do so as a transplant. After all these years, I still feel like a newbie to the region. Suzanne is from local pioneer stock, and my boys are, well, home-grown. We have all celebrated our lives spent in this beautiful district, and we have no intention of leaving any time soon. There are disadvantages living in Muskoka, primarily the seasonal economy. Our boys operate a vintage music shop on the main street of Gravenhurst, and after five years of learning the peculiarities of the seasonal tide, are still thrilled to be able to stay in the district……when many of their mates have had to seek employment outside the area.

This isn't an info blog to promote Muskoka living. It's just an honest appraisal of how we have become loyalists to this wonderful region, that has for long and long given us inspiration and natural comforts. If there is any one thing I dislike about the region, it's the local political follies. Even as a reporter, covering the municipal beat, I found it almost impossible to write an unbiased news piece about the incompetence I witnessed serving a number of district municipalities. Councillors and mayors who weren't in any way experienced enough, to be running a multi million dollar corporation……and staffers who seized opportunities to prevail their own mandates over the folks we elected to oversee the stewardship and prosperity of the region. I had to remind councillors, time and again, that the directives coming from some of their department-heads were ridiculous, and the way they administered their staff was beyond what they were entitled. On numerous occasions I let the public decide if a department's actions were fair or not, and usually it was obvious the poop was going to hit the fan. Even before the ink had dried on that week's paper, councillors reacted to the news copy, about rogue department heads, and things were corrected quickly. I wondered out loud many times why councillors felt they were of lesser relevance to the taxpayers, who elected them, than the employees. I still find evidence of this today, as a civilian, and frankly it makes me nuts. There's nothing wrong with a reliance on the professionals, supposedly trained in their respective fields, but occasionally, and in some case more frequently, employees quickly over-ride weak councillors…..and even a weak council. I worry a lot about our district because our political representatives seem terribly out of touch with what is going on at street and neighborhood level……where food banks are in great need to handle their ever-expanding client list, and wetlands and forests are still being mowed down to facilitate urban sprawl in the hinterland.

I recently applied to act as one of three citizen advisors for our mayor, here in Gravenhurst, and was, after months and months of waiting for a response, rejected……undoubtedly for speaking my mind about such things as the failings of local councils to protect our resources, and our good life here in Muskoka. I respect the mayor's decision. There is a fear, you see, of bluntness these days, and the preference is the protocol of gentle nudging. I've never found much that moved with gentle nudging, even the two cats that get up on my lap in the evening. I have always felt strongly about blunt honesty, and while I'm environmentally keen, my opinions have never been such that a council, or councillors should feel them the rantings of a madman. I have never poo-pooed development. Just development in the wrong places for environmental well being. I suppose my biggest fight, to protect a wetland known as The Bog, earned me a pretty big "thumbs down," because we challenged every councillor's knowledge of wetlands, first, and just how many had even, just once (even from their cars) had visited what they planned to destroy with development. The more I found out about their ignorance, and indifference, and that they would have, without reservation, voted on the sensitive matter without feeling any obligation for a site inspection, it meant, for me, a future of pro-active assertions at town hall. Council generally doesn't like over-zealous citizens who think they know more than they do.

I love my hometown. I adore Muskoka. As does my family, who have links to the first settlers. There is no place we'd rather be. Even if there was, well, we'd unfortunately expect a similar governance……and we're sorry to admit this…..that our faith in local government, like the upper levels, has had so many holes punched in it……there's not much durability of faith left. I won't change my opinion about the region, or the good graces of my hometown. But it will take a behemoth change in local politics, for me to ever feel it is truly and totally working efficiently, sensibly and reliably. I'm just a crusty old reporter, and a crustier historian, who has seen this manifest over decades…..not just months. And when I mistakenly think that these insights might help council develop a more pro-active, citizen-responsive way of conducting business, I'm reminded time and again, change is better with a nudge than a push. I'm pushy. I will not apologize for my bluntness. Bluntness is precisely what our elected officials need……and the recent Toronto debacle of tax cutting and program reduction, is clear evidence, that when you think you're smarter than the population……sometimes you find the opposite holds true. Ramming stuff through is really stupid for any council. It didn't take days to create the mess. So it will take years to correct. The restoration will depend on conciliatory action by all the partners in the city. The same holds true for our town, and our region.

2011-09-16T07:21:00.000-07:00

AUTUMN THE TIME FOR WANDERING AND PONDERING

It was a busy summer in the antique trade. And it has been just as aggressive in this early part of September. I love my business, and its one I've been pursuing since my late teens. I was a hunter-gatherer child and I seldom came home from school without a collection of good-finds. My mother Merle didn't think so, and she'd regularly cull my bedroom when I trundled back to school. So I didn't just become a collector/dealer as the result of some sort of mid-life change of direction. I can't imagine not being a collector of stuff. I adore writing but antiquing gets me out on the open road, and well, that inspires the writer-in-me. I can't even speculate on how many pieces I've written in the past thirty years but it would have to be quite weighty.

Suzanne and I were habitual about our antiquing runs, despite the oppressive heat for a large portion of the summer. Usually the heat confounds us antique collectors, in Canada, as it is the cooler weather of early autumn that brings out the nostalgia of life's changing seasons. We lovers of history, fall back into those homestead days, and visiting antique shops and estate sales, flea markets and church fundraisers, puts us pleasantly back in time. We are time travelers, no doubt about it. At the same time, as we settle into what will be our retirement business a few years down the road, we have also become very mellow in the pursuit. We used to hustle. When we had a main street business location, back in the early 1990's, we were like fireballs on the auction and yard sale circuit. I can remember, one afternoon at a local auction, finding myself so uptight, that my heart rate was through the roof…..like I was running the 100 metre race at an Olympic event. I was so determined to win a bid, on an item we wanted, that I became as mean, and wretched a human being as Dickens penned of the legendary Scrooge. I wanted to jump over the audience in front, and tackle my adversaries. Suzanne and our boys, Andrew and Robert, watched as my face got redder than a baboon's arse, and my bidding became reckless. I was going to pay more than the item was worth, just to prove a point. The point, "I can spend more than you!" The real point, I shouldn't take bidding so personally. And, most significantly, not only did I win the auction item, and pay more than I should have, but I proved to my family, dad needs to review his business and life priorities.

We had a long discussion, and they told me that my actions, on this occasion, were part of a pattern of growing aggression to out-muster my competitors. As a team player in hockey, baseball, football, and as a rabid golfer, I was transferring my competitive qualities, good or bad, into my lifestyle-profession. What a donkey. Apparently, my head nearly exploded at many auctions in the past. I just didn't recognize the danger signs. It's one thing to be competitive but another entirely to stroke-out because you didn't win the Hoosier cupboard, or the jug and bowl set.

As a result of this "intervention," I have mellowed a lot these days, and if antiquing can be, in any way an ethereal experience, I've come as close to finding it as anyone. When I reference collecting and the road trips taken to uncover the wee treasures, it is all with a sense of calm and enjoyment. Not just wordsmithing so that it seems this way. I enjoy my work so much that it isn't any work at all. We travel all over the region, at all times of the year, and we stop frequently for picnics, and anywhere else we are afforded a beautiful view of our home district. I don't race out of the house on Saturday mornings to get to yard sales before my competitors. Yet even when we do start late, and take a slow jaunt around town, I'm always rewarded with a couple of good finds per outing. Even if we didn't find a thing, we'd still enjoy the ride, and the visits made with friends met along the way. With all the experience we've gathered over the decades in this profession, we can boast having a sort of sonar beam of knowledge to hone in on worthy pieces, and this affords us a little more time and pleasure in between sales. I watch a lot of frantic people running and driving to the sales, and frankly, I'm glad my family helped me see the greener pasture, where it has always been. Life's too short and precious to allow yourself to get embroiled in what should be an invigorating, contenting business.

Through this blogsite, I often write about our antique outings and finds. I have been writing antique related columns dating back to the late 1970's, when I had my first weekly column in the fledgling Bracebridge Examiner. A lot calmer about the industry today, I take a gentler approach to the whole enterprise, including the write-ups, which are not about making profit, or increasing big finds out there, but rather, like the book, "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance," paying attention to life, the world around us, the changes day to day in nature, and how we relate to the universe of stuff……interacting with us second by second. Suzanne and I now pursue our cherished industry because we have removed all the stresses that enter in to the traditional business model. We sometimes come home without one find, yet we happily enjoyed a splendid picnic in a beautiful park, found along our route, and may have even returned home with a basket of tomatoes, some corn, newly dug potatoes, or some magnificent just-picked apples. We adore the experience, not just in the antique trade but how it spins-off into the celebration of another day together, in an oh-so-precious environs. So when I do reflect on our retirement business, in this blog-site, it is relevant to note, in advance of reading it, that we truly adore hunting/gathering, but we are even more passionate about the experience, all inclusive,….more than just making a find that will eventually translate onto the balance sheet as a profit-maker. I suppose in the Dragon's Den (CBC Television Program about business propositions, winners and losers) tradition, my attitude sucks, because to most, profit is the message. And it is a passionate one. Well, I don't think anyone swings favor at the Pearly Gates, for business moxie in life. I'm pretty sure enlightenment about life carries a wee bit more weight, than what was a fat wallet over a lifetime.

Maybe we'll see you out there on the antiquing trail. Good luck hunting.

2011-09-13T06:16:00.000-07:00

ANTIQUING THROUGHOUT THE SUMMER WAS HOT BUT A WORTHWHILE ADVENTURE

As with most summers throughout my writing career, with exception of the years with Muskoka Publication, in Bracebridge, I suspend my writing tasks due to hot weather. I have never been able to write much in the summer, and for years and years, I'd compose ninety percent of my required summer copy for the Muskoka Sun in January and February, my most prolific period of the year. There are few distractions except the burden of snow plugging the driveway, and water-lines freezing. So this year was no exception, and with the deep heat for so many days, Suzanne and I tended our other worldly projects, and concentrated on acquiring inventory for our antique trade. It wasn't perfect traveling weather either but it was infinitely better than sitting and dripping sweat all the live long day. We were still sweating but making good finds and better purchases of old stuff, at the same time. Admittedly, the antique trade has always worked in this way, to take us away from the day-to-day anxieties, and to say we zone-out is an understatement. The autumn season, is by far, the best time to be antiquing, and we have some great adventures planned. But writing becomes less onerous, and more exciting in the cooler climes, and that's the way it's always been for me. I'll be back soon with some more entries for this Muskoka blogsite.

2011-06-24T07:04:00.001-07:00

WORKING ON A BIOGRAPHY ABOUT MY FAMILY - TWO BOYS THAT DESERVE MOM AND POP'S RESPECT

It was about two years ago that I suggested our boys, Andrew and Robert, should give some serious thought, to setting up a little archives, or scrapbook collection, to keep news clippings safe. It's not really an ego thing, but maybe it is, for me more than the lads. They've got a large collection of photographs, from the local newspapers, mounted on cork boards mounted throughout the store. It's surprising what coverage they've had over the past five years. The fact they organize and perform in a number of fundraisers each year, they inevitably are asked to pose for promotional photographs, and they usually line-up their students to stand-in, as it is their work that is usually being showcased at these same fundraising concert venues. I didn't want these photographs lost or ripped off the board unceremoniously, because it provides a wonderful record of their music shop, and guitar class highlights over the past half decade. So it took two years to warm up to it, but finally we have taken steps to record all the neat stuff that has happened, as a result of having a main street Gravenhurst shop, to make life and business so darn enthralling. It's a work in progress, and an archives you can read, with regular updates and photographs.

I started writing work on a preamble biography two weeks ago. When I sat down to write the company history, I thought it would take a couple of days at the most. But I found that there was so much more to include than just the in-store realities. There was a lot of stuff leading up to the store's opening that couldn't be left out. Both Andrew and Robert arrived at the store-opening-stage, after spending most of their young lives, part of the family antique business. They've been hauled from historic site to antique auction, art galleries, to research assignments on Canoe Lake. They've been vendor assistants at many, many outdoor antique and collectible sales, throughout the region. They spent their young lives, by my side, at Woodchester Villa, and Museum, (Bracebridge), and were my capable assistants in our family's 12 years associated with the Crozier Foundation and its sponsorship of the Bracebridge Sports Hall of Fame. They were volunteering for the foundation for children when they were pretty much children themselves. They began collecting vintage vinyl, in large part, from the collection given to them by Suzanne, who bestowed her cherished 45's on them some years back, all obtained during her family's years owning and operating the Windermere Marina and snackbar, "The Skipper." She was given the cast-off records by the owner of the jukebox, and she kept them for future posterity. Her boys!

I found things about their young lives, I couldn't ignore, because they played an integral role in developing their interests. As the 45 rpm records gave them a start in vintage vinyl collecting, Andrew's keen interest in his grandfather's carpentry work was always an ongoing fascination, whenever we visited Norm Stripp's house or cottage in Windermere. Norm was a master craftsman when it came to restoring Muskoka's vintage wooden boats, and he always had at least one in the workshop for Andrew to study. In the cottage boathouse there was a vintage Hunter, from the Orillia boat works, and a racing boat called the "SS" built by Norman and his father Sam Stripp. Andrew has also kept track, for many years, of the well known Ditchburn, the "Shirl E Von," that Norman had as a marina boat back in the 1960's and early 70's, used for ferrying people from the mainland to island cottages. Whenever that magnificent boat is being shown at the Antique Boat Show, here in Gravenhurst, Andrew is one of the first patrons through the gate. He's enormously proud of his grandfather Norm's accomplishment in the old boat industry, here in Muskoka, and although he hasn't tackled many boat restoration projects, what he learned from his grandfather, and watched in process, has merged into his work today repairing vintage instruments. It just had to be part of the biography.

Robert has long held a fascination with art, particularly vintage Canadiana and has a fondness for abstract works. When I began working on Tom Thomson research, back in the mid-1990's, he not only became interested in this artist's work but the Group of Seven artists, Thomson had inspired before his death. One of the books I was using, entitled "Silence and the Storm," written by art historian David Silcox, and artist Harold Town, inspired an offshoot interest in the abstract work of Mr. Town……who was a frequent visitor of Gravenhurst, at the home of fellow artist Frank Johnson. Town's sailboat, the "Cara Mia" sat on Johnson's property for years, and Andrew, in his many walks by, pondered if it would ever be put up for sale. This is explained in the book, "Hot Breakfast for Sparrows," written by his former girlfriend Iris Nowell. As I became more interested in Harold Town, after working on the Thomson research, Robert kind of got sucked into the vortex here at Birch Hollow. He began to appreciate the work of Harold Town, and low and behold, at the local Thrift Shop, we found a puzzle Town had created and published for a price we could afford. An original Town painting would set us back a lot of money these days but his puzzle, done as a wee bit of a lark, was a teaser for a young man with an eye for good and interesting art. He would adore a Jackson Pollock original if only he had the several million dollars it would take to purchase one. Robert has amassed a small but neat collection of original art pieces, and it's all played a role in his musical interest as well. His absolute pride and joy would be to own, one day, an original art work painted by legendary musician, Frank Zappa. He has a Zappa record collection, so what a neat topping it would be, to have one of his paintings. Once again, it's a long shot, unless at some out of the way yard sale, one happens to pop up for sale. Robert has a more artistic eye when it comes to his music nostalgia interests, and he pays enormous respect to the graphic artists, and designers generally of record covers on that vintage vinyl. I think he'd like to frame them. In his opinion, they are works of art…..and you can listen to what's inside.

I couldn't write a contemporary biography of the boys' work in the music industry, thus far, without delving into their early days, and the influences they have had, being exposed to many unique and diverse adventures in learning. I wanted them to have this historical overview, now published on their blog site (identified below), as a future reference. There are no embellishments. No reason to do that. They've lived it all, and are here to talk about it…..if you ask them. In ten years time, when their lives and love interests have taken those anticipated turns, I want them to be able to reflect back on the way their business together began, and the promises that were made to old mom and pop, who helped them get their big start. Our request was, that should they ever part, in business, or move away from their present hometown, they must never turn their back on a brother in need. They were raised in an old fashioned close family, and our values have always been the same……and we hope it shows now, later, and in the distant future. This brotherly respect, which wasn't in great evidence as they were growing up, is what we are so proud of today. When we see them on stage performing together, Suzanne and I are regularly brought to tears……because it was what we hoped for when we began our family, as two scared newlyweds unsure of our capabilities as future parents. I want to believe, as I'm sure Suzanne would agree, that both boys, when frustrated, challenged, depressed, or just nostalgic, will read back through the biography I've composed, and find out more about themselves, and their sources of inspiration, to pass on to their own kids seeking the meaning of life. If those kids, reading this lengthy 2011 tome, of "War and Peace" verbiage, find it all interesting, and inspiring, and think of their respective dads as having accomplished something, then this old ghost will feel the vibe of true success…..that doesn't have a thing to do with money, acquired property, celebrity or social standing. It will have to do with two good lads, who worked hard, and sacrificed constantly, and believed in the strength and resilience of their hometown. They never stood at the side of an issue, especially when it came to helping their town during difficult times, or friends and neighbors who had fallen on hard times. Even after only five years of business, they have never lost their sense of commitment, and have sponsored many fundraisers, especially for the Salvation Army Food Bank.

Some might look at this biography as an exercise in grandstanding and shameful self promotion. They might think old man Currie's only purpose for writing this, was to boost his own fortunes, by being able to report his boys are the best boys in the whole darn world……..and that you should hire him to write your own "full-of-grandeur" family history. But if you know us, as a family, as business people, in the writing or teaching professions, you will appreciate, the last of our interests is in ego-stroking. We don't have the time. There's too much work to be done. Yet, as an historian, and as dad (the stay-at-home Mr. Mom), my mission is to make sure the roots of their business are protected and conserved. That they both have a reference to consult when they, for whatever reason, have lost their way, or have experienced a failure or business collapse. Having reims of editorial copy at their backs, may not save their business. I want it to save them, because what they have accomplished so far in life and business, is a very real credit to their respective characters, and their work ethic. I want it to remind them of the good old days, when they felt a little like underdogs, because of a struggling family economy, and the reality their shoes, their pants, their shirts, while clean, were a little threadbare. These boys weathered many economic storms to get to this place in their careers. While they may not remember the soles of their shoes flapping in a strange cadence, or having to buy their shirts second hand, because it was all we could afford, they never once complained about their perceived misfortunes. It all balanced out in later years, when the family budget improved. They have long proven to us, their willingness to take the good with the bad, and if they complain, and it's usually about politics, they should be taken seriously, because they know what they're talking about. The care a lot about their hometown and are deeply concerned about its future, because it's where they want to raise a family, and continue to run a business.

Yup, we're proud of Andrew and Robert, just as we should be. Drop into the Muskoka Road shop for a little chat. They'd love to see you. http://curriesmusic.blogspot.com/

2011-06-22T06:36:00.001-07:00

ON ASSIGNMENT FOR THE HISTORY OF MY KIDS' BUSINESS

For the past two weeks I've been immersed in family history. Business history in part. Well, I guess mostly business. You see, I've been promising Andrew and Robert that I'd write-up their biographies for a new blog-site, promoting their respective Gravenhurst businesses…..Andrew Currie's Music and Collectables, and Robert Currie's Music, both situated in the former Muskoka Theatre building, on Muskoka Road, opposite the Opera House.

Now over the five year hump, for small business, they wanted to have a proper biography done, in the event, in ten year's time, they write a book about their experiences. That's presumptuous isn't it? Well, they've found a book they really like, that was put together by a music shop in the United States, documenting the really neat musical heritage that has happened on the premises. The important musicians who have played guitars and drums for sale, the music-makers of the nation who have visited, hung-out, and chatted with the proprietor, over the decades, are included in the store journal along with photographs. The boys thought it would be nice, considering that dad is both an historian and writer, currently between gigs, to start piecing together the way they both started in the music industry…..as kids. I thought it was important as well, even without a book deal in the future, to document how they came to open this present Gravenhurst shop; on the tightest shoe-string budget you could imagine……two green guitar players having the nerve to enter the highly competitive domain of music-shop-management.

I've done their early years and it will be used on their new blog site, that has now officially made its way to the public domain. So check it out. It's personal, biased, full of nepotism and family allegiances, but it's honest and the real-article.

http://curriesmusic.blogspot.com/

2011-05-26T07:35:00.001-07:00

JUST LISTENING TO THE FALLING RAIN…..AND LETTING NATURE BE MY GUIDE

It has been an active winter of writing. I don't think I've composed more copy over a winter season, than I have this past seven months. My winter season writing jag begins after Thanksgiving, and carries on until spring chores force me outside again. The problem for me today, is that my body isn't what it used to be. I find myself hunching over this keyboard and practicing the poorest posture…..certainly contributing to a stiff back, stiff knees and a neck so rigid it feels as if I'm wearing a brace. I enjoy the work and I'm just glad to be interested in writing after all these years in the profession. It's obvious pain isn't going to keep me away from this keyboard.

This morning, it is wonderful to be sitting my cluttered, book-strewn office, coffee in hand, staring at a keyboard…..and feeling contented it has had a good winter-season work out. It is raining heavily outside, and the sound hitting the verandah roof, makes it seem so cottage-like and relaxing. I've always been lulled into subtle philosophy by such weather, and this morning, it is the perfect occasion to feel genuinely satisfied that the work over the past months has been successful. No I didn't write a best seller. Or even a modest seller. I don't want to travel around the world on a promotion tour, to sell such a book, if I had pumped one out! I like what I'm doing, with regional publications and my blog-sites which I adore. (I have five sites on different subjects). I don't have to jump on planes, and there are no real inconveniences at all….except for when I get too calm, and complacent, at this time of the year, when my body is beginning to heal itself from the work stresses. I could sit here for hours today, which is a professional danger, and not type one word on this beckoning keyboard. The rain is so wonderfully peace-inducing, that even the loon-shrill of a few moments ago, becomes startling and unsettling. I suppose most of all, I'm just pleased to have weathered another winter, and survived a touch of cabin fever….never missing much time at all, creating copy of all kinds for all uses. It's what any writer needs to feel. My summer season is the period I use to build interest in the next writing season….researching new projects and traveling all over the region as an antique dealer…..finding inspiration all over the place. It's an equally busy time of year in my professional pursuits, just not in writing.

This morning has been interrupted by work around the homestead. Domestic chores don't stop on account of rain. My daydreaming has ceased suddenly, when my son, just now, handed me a piece of paper that had fallen on the floor. It was a suggestion list left by my charming bride……with some expectations for the writer-on-hiatus.

And here I thought I could just sit here and listen to the rain.

2011-05-24T06:18:00.000-07:00

SPRING PLANTING AND ALL THE PROPHETIC ATTACHMENTS OF STARTING ALL OVER

Suzanne and I have been working outdoors, here at Birch Hollow, planting new shrubs and annuals, amidst the natural ferns and wildflowers that arrive in bloom here each June. The lilacs were late blooming this year but as always, it's worth the wait. The old urban homestead looks so out of place, here in the suburbs of our town. We are very much rustic thinkers and if it wasn't for all the attachments of business, we would never have settled on the urban landscape. We surrendered to convenience.

We decided that, as much as possible, we would make the property work for us……as if it didn't inspire us, then it would serve little other purpose than a place to hang our hats and basic shelter. Since 1989 we have done our own thing, much to the neighbor's chagrin. We don't have a subdivision ruler, to show us when the grass is too long. We don't hire weed control folks to batter the landscape with chemicals, and we don't own a power mower, blower, or whacker. I have a push mower and a kind of scythe downsized for a small lawn and shorter grass. The dandelion police look at us with disdain, and we give them the "thumb" up sign, to let them know their objection has been registered.

Now don't think for a moment we don't care about our property. We just don't over-maintain out of boredom. We want enough grass to catch and reflect the morning dew. We want enough diversification of plants and shrubs, to reflect the nature of our region. We have raspberries and lilacs from many different locations in Muskoka, primarily Windermere, on Lake Rosseau, where we once had a family homestead and a Lake Rosseau cottage. Suzanne can see plants that her mother used to nurture, and see the lilac arch that she knew of her aunt's home in Ufford…..part of the original Shea homestead from the late 1800's. There are hundreds of plants and shrubs that were brought to our Birch Hollow property, because they reminded both of us, of what we experienced and enjoyed of those ancestral gardens…..Suzanne in Windermere, and myself in Bracebridge. We won't win any gardening awards because it is a hodgepodge of quirks and whims and fancies. I'm sure the local gardening experts pass our place and wish we'd simply surrender to decorative stone, versus trying to grow anything ourselves.

Suzanne and I are both historians. We have an historic property. Not because it is an old place…….but because it is a composite property possessing many of the landscape values we adore, vestiges of places we once lived, and memories we are reverent of, for what they give us each day…..when we poke our heads out the door, and see and smell the magnificent lilac blooms, and see the contrasts of flowers and leafy canopy, holding the silvery morning dew. Suzanne, a knitter of considerable accomplishment, will sit out on the deck, overlooking what we call "Fern Hollow," and create her hats, mitts, gloves and the occasional sweater. I will sit in my office, with window open, absorbing this splendid view, enjoying the cool air penetrating this inner sanctum. We will both enjoy this place for what it doesn't have. And celebrate it rigorously for what it does have…..and while it is always confusing to our neighbors here, I think they're getting used to the artsy-fartsy old hippies living next door.

We never stop the mission to add more local plants and wildflowers, specifically, to the mix here at Birch Hollow. We might find an interesting flower at roadside, or on a countryside stroll, that simply must come home with us. We will undoubtedly attend a church or farmside sale, one day soon, that will offer up some plants with a little provenance attached. We like those the most. Being able to quilt together a plant culture, from family gardens all over our district. Getting plants from an old homestead, long over-grown, is still our greatest passion. They mean something to us, as historians, and we are grateful and respectful of all these yearly additions. It does make us feel better to live here, amongst the plenty of the hinterland. Suzanne is inspired to knit because of the surroundings, and I am never at a loss for words, looking out on to this small but thriving garden property.

We don't conform. Never have. At least not when it comes to planting according to Hoyle, or the horsepower we are required to have in lawn maintenance equipment. We just shake our heads back at those who shake their heads at us. Live and let live, we say.

2011-05-07T06:28:00.001-07:00

MUSKOKA AT ITS MOST HAUNTED - IN THE MISTY MORNING

It was one of those chilly spring mornings; a day with promise.....the rain has finally ceased for now..... there is great potential for a comfortable, nurturing warmth, with a long stretch of sunshine forecast.....encouraging the buds on the old lilacs to emerge toward that eventual burst of bright color, and alluring sweet fragrance. This morning has a sliding veil of mist that passes over The Bog, enchanting the landscape, stretching out to the tall pines and leaning birches, ghost regiment mustered on the far side of the basin. It is a poetic scene, that any bard would find worthy of a verse or two, an artist with easel, a vibrant, storied paint board, depicting the poignant but gentle ease from morning to evening. It is a wonderful experience, to watch this white mist tumble across the Muskoka moor, and over time, see the powerful beams of light tunnel through the canopy, revealing the heavy dew on the fuzzy fern heads, poking through the past autumn’s leaf cover......the cover that still crunches under foot.

Most folks never see this haunted, tranquil vista, as by the hour they rise from slumber, most of the spring mist will have drifted off into the sill leafless woodlands. They will miss this significant transition of the moment, this hour, the season, and will read an account, such as this, and wonder about all the fuss. It’s just a lowland with a fringe of forest on the upper side. In my vintage, you see, we still held some respect for mystery and magic, enchantments and legend. I don’t believe this to be a legendary place, but this morning had the kind of gyrating shroud, one might expect would, in the morning breeze, writhe like a dragon, through the trees and ferns of Robin Hood’s Sherwood Forest, or bathe the sullen, venerable hardwoods, along the embankment of the Hudson River Valley. This is the kind of morning that reminds voyeurs that reality and the supernatural intertwine; part of the fantastic merge between observation and expectation. It is for the imagination, this morning, to celebrate the nuances of cool spring mornings; sense with an open mind, the sound of those myriad, tiny, silver cataracts of water, running lower and lower through the bogland, toward the lake.......and the golden sun of May, that make this such a wonderfully fictional place.....at the same time, as the written page......taken from reality; I live each day here at Birch Hollow.

2011-05-02T06:41:00.001-07:00

THE MUSKOKA SEASONS - EXPLORATION AND ADVENTURE - A GREAT WEALTH

Washington Irving is by far, my favorite author. His stories of the Haunted Hudson River Valley, the fictitious Sleepy Hollow, and the legendary Headless Horseman, and so many other memorable characters and situations, have always inspired me, and encouraged a revisiting of our own region.....that I also consider a very enchanted and mysterious place on earth. In case you didn’t know this, the name Bracebridge, was taken from the book of short stories written by Irving. Postal Authority, William Dawson LeSueur, thought so highly of Irving’s work, that he borrowed the name when an application was presented from the citizens of North Falls (now Bracebridge). Not liking the name, he awarded the title “Bracebridge” instead, connecting the town to a huge amount of literary heritage.....without making much of a fuss at all. Irving had only just recently passed on, by the year 1864, when LeSueur named the new post office, and it was meant to be an honor to the pioneer community. It just missed the mark unfortunately, and has never really become the tribute it should have been.....if the historian / literary critic / postal authority LeSueur, had bothered to submit a little attached history.

In future blogs this coming year, I would like to explore reasons I believe Muskoka has a lot in common with the Historic Hudson, not just by name and writer alone. Please join me for some interesting adventures, and expeditions, in-and-about our very haunted and enchanted district of Muskoka.

2011-04-18T07:21:00.001-07:00

W. COSLAND HAS PROVIDED A GLIMPSE OF HISTORY - LIVING NOW FOR ME

I have posted images of two, large, mid to late 1800's oil paintings, on stretched canvas, I recently purchased from a charming little antique shop in the City of Orillia. They were both painted by a British artist by the name of “W. Cosford.” We know he was an accomplished artist, as we have found several auction houses that have sold his work in recent years, but when, what year and season, he came to Canada, are the clues for one of those historic mystery-capers we love here at Birch Hollow. He was painting in the 1870's, in England but whether he journeyed here earlier, or later, is a bit of a mystery. The paintings and framing give the appearance of the 1860's to 1880's. There appears to be a birch bark canoe in traverse, in this landscape depiction. We’re not at all sure of the location.

It’s at this time of the rolling year that I have to escape the office environs, at the old homestead, and run amuck through antique shops, auctions, flea markets, church bazaars, and yard sales. Since eighteen years of age, I’ve been an antique “nutter.” For our honeymoon, Suzanne and I travelled to Colonial Williamsburg, in Virginia, and I was nearly divorced on the spot, when I refused to leave the vintage print shop. As a book collector / dealer, this little cranny of history was a literal paradise of paper, ink and printing press. I’d warned Suzanne, before we got married, that life with an antique collector / writer, would be challenging....the household always cluttered with history of one kind or another. Today she does credit me for being honest, at least,...... as we had to move ten or so art works, just to mount the two giant Cosford paintings. Actually, Suzanne loves art as much as I do, and these two images are mood setting pieces for sure. Considering that her family were amongst the earliest pioneers in Muskoka, and my family were United Empire Loyalists, being surrounded by Canadiana is never a hardship. Only when we have to sell-off some pieces, to afford exciting new acquisitions, does regret enter the experience. The “I want it all,” passion is hard to deal with. No, I’m not a hoarder. I’m neater!

Sitting with these two compelling landscapes, in the old glow of a flickering oil lamp, listening to the wind howling across The Bog, this past weekend, made these scenes seem very real indeed.....to the pioneer period we both study and adore. I could hear the wind sweeping across the lakelands depicted by Cosford.....and feel the chill of the April stormscape, and sense the loneliness to the settler, looking out of that cabin door at such a vast wilderness, ......and its unforgiving climate. It is indeed pleasant then, to sit here, by the hearth, and celebrate the comforts of this modern homestead.

You can view the other W. Cosford painting by clicking onto my “Gravenhurst” blogsite. I will be out on the antique hustings more frequently now that the yard and flea market season has rolled around. Seeing as I’ve worn down my fangs anyway, over the past six months of local government watching, it’s time to rejuvenate the heart and soul of the antique hunter. I get stronger and more determined with each find. So far, the pickings are great! I’ll let you know in future blogs.....which will be a little less aggressive and prolific for the next six months, just how we’re doing out there......and what constitutes a truly “big find.” I’m writing an antique hunting column for a new publication, known as The Arrow, published in the Almaguin Region, if you’re up that way this summer.

2011-03-31T07:15:00.000-07:00

IN THE WAKE OF DISASTER, HOW ARE WE SUPPOSED TO FEEL?

It’s hard to sit here at Birch Hollow, these days, without fidgeting all over the place, reaching for the remote for the television, or the control knob of the radio, to get the latest news updates on world tragedies unfolding. It is almost impossible to enjoy this wonderful scene, unfolding in my yard, and across the lane, where spring is settling so warmly and brightly upon the landscape.....without thinking about the nuclear disaster in Japan, and the radiation that might soon touch over these boglands, and contaminate our seasonal flowers in the gardens we built last spring. I have never been one to succumb to doom and gloom, and as a die-hard realist, it’s always prevailed upon me to live with truth, and cast off all the fiction that attaches itself to interpretations.

With this manic need to divest myself of embellishment, and void my thought process of the wonders of fairy dust, and magic beans, to cure what ails us, I have most definitely invited the universe to weigh heavily upon my soul. So that despite the naysayers and assorted vested-interest experts, who assure me that radiation won’t intrude upon the nature of the land......I will sit here calmly, but tuned-in, appreciating the realities I expect......and the need to break free of the falsehoods coming from those who wish only to minimize and de-stress what is known of actuality.

I am a happy and contented writer. I am an eternal optimist. I have been all my life. In fact, I come from a long line of optimists. Of this I am pleased at my lot in life. There is however, a time, in even the optimist’s life, when anticipation and worry can’t be quelled or removed by honesty or the purity of actuality. Sometimes fiction does seem to be the best choice for what ails me. I can’t imagine writing much at all, of an upbeat nature, if I was told bluntly, by an informed source, that the hinterland of our beautiful country, had been contaminated by one of the most deadly forms of man-made pollution.

What can one write about then......other than to adjust to the new normal.....and that we might all be consumed with reality with no buffer or privilege of fiction......no matter how badly we long for escape. We will be forced to deal with that inconvenient truth.....from a half a world away.

2011-03-24T07:23:00.001-07:00

A PERFECT TIME FOR THE LIBERATION OF WRITER IN RESIDENCE

There’s an election coming. I think. Time to escape. Out into the great hinterland of Muskoka......out into the still snowy woods I’ve been admiring for months from my office window.

I can’t stand elections. I hate rhetoric and self-serving spin, and seeing as this makes up most of the content of advertising and speeches, working around the property for the next five weeks seems a good idea. Not to avoid my civic responsibility or anything. Just to sidestep the b.s. I know how I’ll be voting and it won’t be the result of an attack ad, or a story spinner working in the back room as a speech-writer. I think I’ll go and cut some wood before I get mad thinking about the way democracy facilitates fiction.......because surely we know what spin means? A tasteful and strategic manipulation of truth for gain.

Last fall I took down about twenty trees on our property, and each cut hurt like hell. All these trees were planted by me, back when we first arrived at Birch Hollow, and we had nothing but a sandy brown lawn, a few boulders for decoration, and a tiny scraggly woodlot in the side yard. I wanted trees. Lots of trees. I just forgot about things like “roots wrapping around sewer and gas lines,” and “vegetation from those trees growing on my shingles,” and “no light getting through for my partner’s flower gardens.” So I had to cull what I had sown, and it was a miserable harvest. I could almost hear them cry when I had to axe them to the ground. While I felt terrible removing those wonderful little maples, some brought from the Village of Windermere, where we had a family cottage, it did create more light for gardens this year, remove the threat of sewer line strangulation, and potentially save us from a gas line rupture. Roots can do that kind of thing. I just didn’t know it when I planted them in clusters, not far from gas line arteries.

This spring I’ve got a monstrous job cutting up the trees I cast onto a large pile in the sideyard last November. It will take about a month I’m sure, to tidy up. It hopefully will take the whole period of the federal election campaign. When I come in, I’ll be too tired to pay any attention to their barrage of advertisements, and I won’t even make it to the late evening news, before passing out from exhaustion. I’ve got those trees to trim, you see, and gardens to brighten this spring, and can blame all this handyman stuff, for not paying attention to the folly of political candidates......and unless they want to come and lend a hand here at Birch Hollow, I’ll just vote based on knowledge, not on the quality of spin foisted upon the masses.

I’m actually glad I set myself up for all this yard work. It will be so much more pleasant than watching candidates climbing all over themselves to get their message out. I’m staying out, and it’ll be great! Sure, there will be a few pesky candidates wandering through the neighborhood but they’ll probably stay clear of the axeman, rigorously chopping away in this own dimension of real and honest work.

No spin required. No spin wanted!

2011-03-23T07:23:00.001-07:00

SITTING BY THE WINDOW, WATCHING, ENJOYING, BUT WRITING LITTLE

I have just enjoyed a wonderful week’s vacation at home. While many of my contemporaries were hustling all over the planet for the March Break holiday, Suzanne and I stayed home. Well, it’s not as boring as it may read initially. Afterall, we live in Ontario’s beautiful lakeland, and there are thousands of people every year, who endure long drives and heavy traffic to get here.....and well, we don’t have to travel far to enjoy the hinterland benefits.

The only things that got in the way of a thoroughly relaxing week, was world news of earthquakes, tsunamis, radiation leaks, unrest in the Middle East and rumours of a pending federal election here in Canada. Suzanne has always been somewhat burdened by my “need to know” stuff. Not that she’s void of interest in world events, or in upgrading her knowledge, but being married to an old reporter who still thinks he’s working the front-lines, means a constant din and clutter of news related sounds and publications here at the otherwise calm Birch Hollow.

It has been quite difficult to come up with blog entries recently, because the news has been so tragic and depressing. Even watching out over The Bog, our neighborhood wetland, has been less invigorating some days. Calming yes. Just not the kind of motivation this place provides the hungry writer. I have found myself sitting at this desk, for more than an hour at a time, just watching the birds and squirrels around the feeder on the deck, and studying the traffic down our lane. The world events, the devastation in Japan, particularly the escalation of radiation issues, have certainly made me appreciate more astutely, how precarious our survival is, much of it due to our own handiwork.

I love this view from here, and I know that in short order, I will find more to be optimistic about, and feel more compelled to write these blogs. In the meantime, I will just follow the news and hope for the best. And sit with the cats and old dog here at Birch Hollow, looking out at a fascinating lakeland, in the spectacular early days of spring.

2011-03-10T16:34:00.001-08:00

GROWING UP POOR MADE US RESOURCEFUL - SMALL IMPROVEMENTS WERE ENORMOUS IN MY EYES - A GOLD BIKE, A CHEAP BALL GLOVE AND A MULTI-COLORED COAT FOR HALF PRICE

I knew our family was poor. All my chums were from families of modest income, most of them a little better off than us. We were a family of three, living in a two bedroom apartment, up on Alice Street, in Bracebridge, back in the 1960's, and my associates all lived in their own homes. They never held this as a social / economic thing because when it came right down to it, while their families owned homes, they didn’t have oodles of money either, or live extravagantly. These blokes had holes in their runners like me, and got wardrobe changes every August before school started. Maybe socks and underwear at Christmas. For hockey sticks we used ones found at the arena, that were usually broken, and we scavenged baseball bats from the garbage bin at Jubilee Park. I bought a new baseball glove from Bamfords’ Variety Store, up on Toronto Street, as a birthday gift from money given to me, and all my chums had hand-me-down gear that had belonged to older brothers and sisters. No one had much money, other than for corner store treats, and we got those funds from hunting down pop bottle empties and cashing them in for black balls and chewing gum.

My parents, Merle and Ed were good providers but their wages weren’t enough to escape the renter’s way of life. We had to settle for paying off someone else’s mortgage, someone else’s trip to Texas every winter. We just couldn’t seem to get ahead. We weren’t any different then than millions of other folks, who by circumstance, just couldn’t elevate much beyond cheque to cheque living. But I was good with what we had, and even at Christmas, I was contented with a new hockey stick, a couple of pucks, some mitts and a game board. Merle always apologized for not being able to afford more things for me, but I seldom if ever asked. I contented myself by playing outdoors, and used every resource available, for day to day entertainment.

I know that the social stigma of being broke bothered my parents way more than it did me. I remember in high school, being able to afford a neat multi-colored, mod-style fabric coat. I think it was twenty bucks. We used the order office of both Eatons and Sears a lot. I imagined myself looking very dapper in this new coat. Funny how I didn’t notice others wearing the same style of coat before I sent in the order. It was like we all belonged to some club, and should have had an emblem or patch on the front that identified us as “The Boys of Knute” or something like that. It seems a lot of folks were bargain hunting that spring, and it showed. When I told my wife this story, she smiled and said, “you mean the coat of so many colors?” “Are you telling me you remember that coat after all these years? We weren’t even dating then?” I asked. “When we came on the bus, we’d often pass you walking to school.....and there was no mistaking your nearly florescent jacket. Everybody on the bus knew it was you.” Great. Nothing like history to improve your lagging self image.

My mother was very proud and didn’t like to admit we were always a hair’s breadth away from financial disaster, at just about every moment. It affected her health and she suffered from high blood pressure from her early forties. Ed was a difficult guy to live with, and he liked to imbibe, and although a million miles from the story of Angela’s Ashes, he had, in his youth, lived very much a tragic life with an alcoholic Irish father, who abandoned four kids and a wife. Ed would quit his job in a heartbeat, if a manager got too cocky, but he always bounced back, and usually made it to a managerial position within several months. With a good knowledge of the lumber industry, he’d quickly show his prowess with customers, on the respective sales desks of a number of regional lumber companies. He was excellent at this job. But the wages were still low and even with both my parents working, it just wasn’t enough to....let’s say, put down enough to get a mortgage, let alone a cottage, which Ed’s bosses all had. We all had inner struggles with jealousy. It would be stupid to deny this. For example, I was jealous of my friends who all had neat bikes. I went for a long time without, and when they decided to go biking, I stood and watched their silhouettes disappear over the horizon. When one of the lads got a new bike for his birthday, he offered me his old one for five dollars. I had enough to swing the deal but it took breaking into my Christmas fund for a selfish, self-serving purpose. So I bought the most rickety, spokeless, wobbly, rusted piece of junk you’d ever seen. When my dad saw it he was moved to action. He took me immediately to the hardware store for spray paint.....no kid of his was going to be seen on a bike that looked so bad. I picked out gold paint and let me tell you, it didn’t do anything to improve the looks of the two wheeler. In fact, like my multi colored coat I told you about, the old bike just stood out more, and even seemed to glow when nightfall arrived. At least I got to keep up with my chums. Well, not keep up as much as tag along, which was fine. It was better to wobble in last place than remain behind.

Eventually my dad couldn’t stand to see this golden wreck beneath his proud son. So he gave Merle ten bucks to invest, on my behalf, as a downpayment on a nifty green bike, with a banana seat, from Ecclestones Hardware, on Manitoba Street. The bike was thirty-five dollars, and Butch Ecclestone, a dear man if ever there was one, let me take it home then and there, as long as I promised to come in every week with a small payment. It was a bumper season that year for lawn mowing, up at the Alice Street apartment, so the bike was paid off before the end of that summer. It was a metallic green and a joy to ride. I could not only keep up with my buddies but pass them. The only problem was, and it always seemed to be a color related issue with me, but during our neighborhood devilry, all the neighbors could identify me.....to my parents or the fuzz, as “you know, the kid with that snot-green bike!” I bet the shipping tag on that new bike didn’t identify it as being “snot green.” I wouldn’t have bought it then. So I apparently have always been identifiable by the color I attach to myself.

I loved living up at the Alice Street apartments because we were all in the same boat financially, and I’m pretty sure it was discussed, during those summer evening vigils out on the lawn, escaping the terrible humidity trapped in the apartments. But no one seemed to feel downtrodden,..... just living day to day without abundant resources. If you bought a new lawn chair you were living on the wild side. Two lawn chairs and you were getting ready to move on from Alice Street. There was a comradery in that apartment complex, and a sharing of what resources were most bountiful. Food and condiment sharing was a vigorous trade, and you seldom got through a dinner without someone poking their head in the kitchen door, begging a cup of milk, flour, sugar or a container of mustard. We gave what we had. We knew that whoever we loaned the items to, would be there for us, when we needed groceries but were cash restrained. I didn’t see anything wrong with this kind of financial modesty. We helped one another. When one car didn’t start in the morning, there was always a partnering in the very next vehicle that did start. I had a dozen parents in that building. Merle and Ed could ask neighbors if they’d seen me recently, and although the questions might have had to ricochet around the complex, someone as sure as pumpkin makes pie, knew where to find me ninety percent of the time. And yes it helped having a glow in the dark, gold bike, then a snot-green one, and later, a multi-colored coat......the only one in our neighborhood.

By all definition we were poor then. I knew it but for some reason, I found strength in being resourceful as a result of being poor. I had more patches on my pants and shoes than original fabric. The souls of my shoes used to flap in a strange, almost musical cadence, that simply eliminated having dry feet on wet days, or sneaking up on my friends....or enemies. When they couldn’t be held any longer by glue or tape, and I’d be suffering obvious skinned knees from the frequent falls, Merle would insist on getting me a new pair. Not PF Flyers but whatever shoe was on sale at Stedmans or the Economy Store. It didn’t matter to me. I held no stock in flashy shoes but I certainly liked ones that kept my feet dry. I used to run a lot so the not-tripping thing was pretty good as well.

I can remember at baseball, some of the kids, and even the coach, laughing at my cheap ball glove. I knew it was cheaply made every time I caught a ball. It had thin layer of leather and some felt I think under that, and a fabric covering. But basically it was my skin and bones stopping the fastball. The fastball was smaller than the softball most of the younger teams played with. Some of our players could really move that ball along, and all I could do was grimace and turn the frown upside down. As the coach would have liked me to admit, even the pop-ups into the outfield, hurt like hell, if I didn’t catch them in the small webbing of the tiny mitt. It was all I had and my parents couldn’t afford anything better. I think I did feel disadvantaged about this situation, yet I made some incredible catches with that corner store purchase. I got so used to it, that even when I got extra money, I felt it would be unlucky to abandon an old and very worn-out accessory. I probably used that glove into my late teens, and everybody took a shot at making fun of it. Then I’d make a diving catch and they’d be absolutely spellbound how I could have hung onto the ball with such a poor quality glove.

I did the same in hockey, with woefully inadequate equipment. I couldn’t afford goalie skates until my Midget years. Truth is, until it was ruled illegal, I used my baseball glove, with a special protective sleeve taped on, for a couple of seasons. The league didn’t have a lot of surplus equipment to loan out, and I had to settle for what no one else wanted. The pads for my legs were terribly thin and for years I played without arm pads. Until that is, I came home after one game with huge bruises on my arms from slapshots I’d stopped. I didn’t get a lot of rebounds off flesh and bone, I’ll tell you....just a searing pain and tears in the eye. I wanted to play so badly that I was glad to compromise. After nearly breaking my toes, on each foot, the coach finally insisted that I had to have proper goalie skates for insurance purposes. In my pre-juvenile year I was able to buy all new goalie equipment from money I’d made at a summer job.

It’s funny now when I think back on those days. It’s not that we’re wealthy today but infinitely better off than Merle and Ed were in the 1960's, living up there on Alice Street. As young parents ourselves, Suzanne and I did have some painfully lean years trying to afford a new house, a broken car, debt to the eyeballs, and raising two young lads. And we raised the boys with a keen understanding of what being resourceful is all about. Suzanne, who originally trained as a home economics teacher, which later became “family studies,” could make up a soup or stew from just about anything, and kept us well fed through some pretty tough economic times. The boys are still pretty resourceful running their vintage music business, here in Gravenhurst. I can’t tell you how many old guitars, they got cheaply, were fixed up and passed onto young folks and old, who wanted “something affordable.” I know where they were coming from. Settling for less isn’t so bad, even if it’s a wobbly gold bike, a ball glove with a capable hand within, and a multi-colored bargain coat that kept me warm and dry regardless.

I may have been poor but it never stopped me from enjoying each and every day.

2011-03-09T18:14:00.001-08:00

JUST ONE MORE BURDEN TO HAUL DOWN LIFE’S HIGHWAY

The headline in today’s weekly newspaper, seared like a branding iron on my chest. Our town council has pared down this year’s tax hike to 8.9 percent. I’m pretty sure most readers of this headline, would have reacted the same as I did.......reading the article twice to make sure it wasn’t a typo, before screaming out loud, “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this any more.”

It wasn’t a typo. It was the new reality of a new council. And I had such high hopes!

My disconnect with them, is that they undoubtedly think they did a terrific job, slashing the initial “committee grab” for money, by a whopping five percent. Five percent isn’t whopping by the way. I was being sarcastic. I’m thinking otherwise, that they did a crappy job. And it’s not over yet either. It might be higher. There’s still some begging going on, so I’m expecting more searing news from town hall in the near future..

The problem is a simple one. The previous council, while warned by ratepayers, went on a spending spree that involved opening a new town hall, giving the old hall to the local fire department, taking federal money to build a new pool / recreation complex, (but having to do it on short notice, or risk losing out), with the belief that we would be, on the bankable side, gaining all kinds of new development that would increase the tax base. Well, that hasn’t quite happened just yet, because there was this recession that blew in from the south.

The problem is that our town is going through some major economic changes, and the main street has suffered from the development of new commercial pods.....and from those inevitable changes of fortune every main street, in North America, has faced in recent history. But complicating this is the fact we spent too much, as a municipality, for too long, and now we’re having to face, on one hand, departmental cutbacks, and on the other, an 8.9 percent, or higher tax increase. Those on fixed incomes are facing a tough road ahead, and I’m not satisfied town council appreciates just how this, and the layering-on of other fiscal pressures, are creating some serious social /economic problems in our midst. Much of this collateral damage of the citizenry, is going to be heaped onto social services and to the local Food Bank, so generously operated by the Salvation Army. While some folks debate the value of a trolley, to connect the commercial pods with the mainstreet, I’m pretty sure that if it requires an increase in the tax rate for 2011, we’ll have our own home-grown rebellion foisted upon town hall.

What is offensive, is that council is not stating the obvious......that the debt and spending activities that got us into the 8.9 percent tax number, is the handiwork of a past council. While I do expect the present, new and hopefully improved council, is trying to deal with crisis-financing, to please committee chairs, they need to explain clearly to the citizens, who will have to haul this tax burden into the future, just how poor the previous governance was on towing the line.

In the case of our brand new pool / recreation complex, the money came from a federal source?, and was hinged on a hurry-up plan that demanded adherence to strict time-lines. What it did was create a panic to get gears in motion. Important stuff, like a high water table, apparently didn’t adhere to the strict time protocol. How dare it be there....in the way of progress! Nothing at all should have been fast-tracked just to snag the offering of instant cash. What have we all been told about temptation, and reasons we should be wary of anything too good to be true? While to many in this community, and I am in the minority, not accepting the money offer, for a long dreamed-of pool, would have been a blasphemous act. Downright “anti-hometown!” Yet if I’m not mistaken, the Lake of Bays turned down money to construct a large warehouse-type facility, to be erected in the municipality, for some use by the G-8, that was graciously declined by council. I think it might have become a central Muskoka archives, although I stand to be corrected. At the time, councillors could not support acquiring a new building, and then being responsible for its maintenance and operation evermore. Turning down money seemed a terrible thing to do. But not really. They knew what they could afford in the future, based on their ability to fairly tax constituents. We could have survived several more years without a new pool, and found or raised funds required to build exactly what we wanted, when we could absolutely afford it. With new site operating costs, and a tight budgets for the foreseeable future, I hope the new centre will fall tidily within a restrained budget. I think Parks and Recreation folks are in for an eye-opening experience, when the invoices start rolling in, during those first years of trial and error operation.

We find ourselves in a bad situation because of so many other substantial cost increases from fuel and food, to water, sewers and hydro. The tax burden is becoming a serious concern and one likely to carry on for years. When budgets are cut, and projects shelved, they return with a fury. With huge and unfair increases in property assessment values, in addition, this isn’t going to be a one year tax event. For a lot of folks just barely surviving, all increases are threatening and hurtful. And what I want to see from council, is an appreciation that justifying the increase in their own minds, doesn’t make it acceptable in ours.

I would love to see town councillors dawdle a while, over at the main street Food Bank, possibly asking a few questions of volunteers......and learning by blunt immersion, that what they perceive to be a prosperous, progressive town, is actually one that is suffering, the result of blatant indifference.

2011-03-02T07:03:00.001-08:00

MARCH BREAK IN MUSKOKA - I’M JUST GLAD TO BE HERE

In over thirty years writing in, and about the District of Muskoka, I’ve never been asked.....not once, to write a promotional piece, specifically to attract visitors to our area of the province. I guess, in some ways it does bother me, especially, when over the years, outside writers and promotional services from places elsewhere, have been kept busy promoting life and recreation here. I’m sure the attitude has been, that local writers just can’t handle such an enormous project. Well, I’ve spent many years trying to figure out that ridiculous attitude. The best understanding of the social, cultural, historic patina of our region, is from those who’ve spent vast amounts of time here. Every year however, they’ll be some silly, generalized, obtuse promotion about our region, generated from an office or boardroom a hundred miles or more, from the subject hinterland.

Although I’ve never been asked to promote and highlight Muskoka, I’ve been doing it on my own since my first major writing gig in 1978, with the Bracebridge Examiner, and then onward to Muskoka Publications and the seasonal feature papers, The Muskoka Sun, and The Muskokan. In just about everything I write, whether it is a column on antiques and collectibles, or on golf, history, current events, or politics, Muskoka is always the background drawn from.....and I like to think that rather than being known as a Gravenhurst writer, I’m a Muskoka author. I’ve wanted to be known as a Muskokan from the spring of 1966, when my family thankfully relocated here, from Burlington, Ontario. It was my making, let me tell you. It’s as if my parents did it just for me. I felt pent-up in the cityscape. There was too much, when I was happy with a less grandiose and busy home region.

When I graduated university in Toronto, back in the spring of 1977, I couldn’t wait to get home to Bracebridge. Despite the fact our family was very much a part of the building history of Toronto.....my grandfather, Stan Jackson, has a Toronto street named after him, getting back to Muskoka was the end-all. I won’t say that it alone, meant the end of my relationship to a long-time girlfriend but it certainly was a contributing factor. Also from Bracebridge, she saw so many more opportunities in the city than I did. Her liberation was the urban landscape. Mine was the rural clime of Muskoka. It hurt for a long time after ending our years together but never once have I had a single regret that my decision to remain here in Muskoka, hurt my opportunities for a good and prosperous life. And it is certainly why over three decades, I have without reservation, promoted a Muskoka lifestyle at every turn, the intimate patina for thousands of written pieces, that hopefully, in some way, have reminded readers how fond I am of this rural existence......and why they should visit more often.

I will still get furious when I read about some distant public relations firm, being awarded a lucrative contract to promote Muskoka to the rest of the world. Nonsense. It can never be as heartfelt and believable, as from someone who has been nurtured and inspired by the environs since 1966. When my dad told us he had accepted a lumber company offer, from an old friend up in Bracebridge, in the vacation paradise of Muskoka, I was speechless.....but ready then to load up the car and leave the city for good. That moment! I never was very patient. As a preamble to this job offer, was a summer-time trip up to beautiful Bruce Lake, near Minett (Lake Rosseau area), to meet with Ed’s future employer. It was a three day adventure that hooked me from the first bear we saw, to the great fishing we enjoyed. Having the chance to live in this natural paradise year-round, was literally off the charts. It was very much a dream come true for an uninspired city kid.

Living rurally has its challenges. We’ve been told that by city-folks for several centuries, and that Muskoka is only worth visiting in the summer months. Well, I’ve been quite contented to let them know otherwise, since my first published columns back in 1978. Yet no matter how often and effective these pieces have been, creating a modest buzz about our district, I can predict in advance, I will never be approached by any local governance or tourism agency, to produce Muskoka themed editorial material. I’m good with this because my passion for Muskoka has never had a cash value attached, and for most of the editorial and feature inclusions, I’ve never been paid a dime. But promoting Muskoka is just a naturally flowing interest, and as it has been perpetually nurturing to me, and certainly my family, it’s the least I can do.......to represent it, enthusiastically, as the welcoming, hospitable, invigorating region it is.....and has been since the late 1800's.

My wife and I look forward to spending our March Break at home......in Gravenhurst, Muskoka. We’ll day-travel from morning to nightfall, and celebrate every square inch of this picturesque Ontario lakeland. We’ll come home to our modest little homestead, at Birch Hollow, and warm by the hearth, feeling quite contented we have had a good and memorable vacation.....again!

I’ve haven’t been paid to do this.......but I’m doing it anyway. Visit Muskoka. What a hauntingly special place on earth. I know it for fact! By immersion!

2011-03-01T06:09:00.001-08:00

THE OIL LAMP GLOW OF MARCH - THE MERGING OF OLD AND NEW REALITIES

A former girlfriend’s father introduced me to vintage oil lamps. I was nineteen, at the time, and I was enthralled by Gord Smith’s (Algor Cottages / Lake Muskoka) diverse interest in antiques. He was a terrific furniture restorer, and a perfectionist in every way. The only time he got mad at me in five years, dating his daughter, was when I pointed out a brush hair left in the varnish, on an otherwise magnificently refinished oak table-top. It wasn’t my fault it was there,.... just my fault for upsetting his complete satisfaction for the piece. He knew it would leave of terrible mark in the surface if he dug it out. The last I remember, he had decided to leave it as provenance of modern era restoration. I’d told him that it wasn’t uncommon, and actually quite desirable, to find a brush hair on a fine work of art.....left by say A.Y. Jackson or Tom Thomson.

He would take a beaten-up dining room table with chairs, that you’d swear had no future whatsoever, and Gord would dismantle the pieces, strip them of the old paint, and rebuild them as they had been originally crafted. You wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between the new piece, when it arrived, via a horse-drawn delivery wagon in the 1890's, and its restored condition circa the late 1970's. He was that good. The furniture came out of his workshop ready for another hundred year haul. I do believe it was Gord who inspired me most, to start refinishing pieces myself, and while I don’t restore with the same vigor and volume of my youth, I still love to find a challenging piece to work on. I never quite attained Gord’s skill.

Gord had a particular fascination for vintage oil lamps. He never really explained why, but it was a real treat when he fired up the dozen or so he had positioned on a Victorian table in the livingroom. There were some fancy, colored lamps, with elaborate shades but most were examples of farm and utility oil lamps that I think must have reminded him of his own days on a homestead near Bracebridge. The smell of those ignited oil lamps did something to me, and when they were aglow, I was in a writer’s paradise. When Gail would be helping her mother in the kitchen, after dinner, I’d sit there and make copious notes about all kinds of things. One of the notes must have read something like, “Must start my own old lamp collection.” I did.

My first acquisition was a finger lamp.....a tiny wee thing with a wire collar that created a finger loop, that allowed it to be carried from room to room. I purchased it from a landlady in Toronto, and for the balance of that school year, I ignited the lamp every evening. When Gail and I went to an estate auction, in Bracebridge, I was able to buy a large clear glass farm lamp....that’s what Gord called it, and for years it was kept on my writing desk. As I worked on my vintage Underwood, clacking away the night, the illumination was the soft glow from these two wonderful oil lamps. Possibly not so pleasant for some folks, but I adored the scent of burning lamp oil. It was my modest form of historical actuality, and how fitting it was to be working on some history project, tapping away at an early century manual typewriter, with the assistance of such historic lighting.

The Smith family introduced me, to not only the amazing ambience of historic lighting but the joy of collecting antiques generally. Gail and I attended many auctions and hundreds of antique shops looking for interesting pieces. I opened my first antique business, as a family partnership in the fall of 1977, only months after graduating York University. Yes, with a degree in Canadian history. I moved on from that business, leaving it to my parents, and opened a new antique enterprise in the late 1980's, with my wife Suzanne, today known as Birch Hollow Antiques. Suzanne has been a huge motivating force in the business, with her interest in vintage fabrics, particularly wool blankets from Hudson’s Bay to locally produced Bird’s Woollen Mill bedding. She is an expert knitter and uses vintage wool, we find out on the hustings, and from estates, to produce great winter socks and mitts. She sells them at our sons’ music store on Muskoka Road, here in Gravenhurst. And yes, while she’s knitting away, there’ll be an oil lamp glowing beside.

Every fall I stock up on lamp oil for the winter season, just in case there’s a power shortage. Until I recently acquired a large camp stove for emergency heat, I could employ about thirty old oil lamps to heat Birch Hollow for about a week. In March, with lesser concern about power outages, and to keep a fresh stock of oil in reserve, I use-up the oldest of the coal oil, to burn in a half dozen lamps on the harvest table. The heat that builds up shuts off the baseboard heaters for most of the night. As coal oil prices have risen, the cost savings isn’t huge but the ambience of the golden light is worth a lot more. I think about Gord and the Smith family when I ignite these attractive glass lamps, and I certainly benefit from the inspiration they provide. I can sit here long into the evening making notes in my journal, feeling so much closer to the history I’m usually writing about. There’s nothing like a flame glow to enhance the patina of old pine and cranberry glass around them. It’s my night at the museum you might say.

To hear Suzanne clicking and clacking those knitting needles, and see her silhouette in the lamplight, is to feel honestly and pleasantly connected to the history of Muskoka. It’s what her grandmother and great grandmothers used to do at their Ufford farmstead, from the 1860's onward. She’s carrying on a Shea, Veitch and Stripp family tradition.

Whenever I come upon a neat old oil lamp, at an auction or yard sale, at a second hand shop or church fundraiser, I can’t resist adding it to my collection. The rule is, I must restore it immediately, get a new burner if needed, a new shade, or wick and provide a good cleaning of the font and exterior. Suzanne hates dirty lamps. I will get it topped up with oil, and for the next two weeks or so, it is our main working lamp. If I really like it, well, there’s a good chance it could get a year’s run in the annual lamp rotation. I’ve got about forty lamps now. I have sold a few off over the years to collectors. I’m not enthralled by fancy or colored glass lamps, as I very much prefer the utility lamps that were used in pioneer cabins and farmhouses. I often sell off the better quality lamps instead of my old standbys that can provide light and heat in the brightness and volume I need. Nothing fancy about it!

Using vintage oil lamps requires great attention and maintenance. I never leave the room when they are ignited. I have had flare-ups occasionally, from an air space developing between the wick and the tin sleeve of the burner, allowing the flame too much available fuel from the font. It will break the chimney glass, so you need to be on top of it as quickly as possible, to prevent a serious fire. A lot of pioneer dwellings were lost as a result of lighting misadventures.

To welcome in the spring, I will ignite several oil lamps this evening. It’s a March tradition here at Birch Hollow. Suzanne will complain initially about the smell, move a litter further from the harvest table because of it, and the heat it produces, and warn me throughout the evening to watch the flames. Just as I’m sure husband and wife interacted about the same issues, in those Muskoka homestead cabins of yore. I love my oil lamps. I love my wife.

Thanks Gord for giving me my start with antiques and historic lighting.

2011-02-28T17:13:00.001-08:00

ALL OUR OLD NEIGHBORHOODS -

WHAT TO DO WITH THE MEMORIES?

I’M LEAVING THAT UP TO MY SONS AND GRANDKIDS!

In a notebook I keep by my livingroom chair, I occasionally jot down story ideas. Not invented stories but ones that I believe my biography should contain. Reminiscences I want my grandkids to know about. I’m pretty sure my grown sons, know how important my childhood recollections are......because I’ve been droning on and on for years, about stuff I’m sure they couldn’t care less about. It has relevance in the grand scheme but on the short haul, it doesn’t make much difference if I tossed green apples at roof tops, or played “nicky-nicky nine doors” till the cows came home. It is what it is. Important to me. Annoying chatter to them, when they’ve got more important things to do,....... than reminisce about something and someplace they never visited.

I don’t know how you feel about your own childhood neighborhood. Some were better than others, admittedly, and some may wish to forget about certain unfortunate, unhappy events and circumstances. Maybe you’d rather forget about childhood generally because of bad memories. I’ve always had a mid-zone approach. There’s lots of periods I’d rather forget but I know I can’t. Like when my parents argued and argued and argued. My dad had a free-flowing Irish arrogance, often drank too much, was jealous to a fault, and could be a social problem if given all the right conditions. My mother was determined and feisty, and soldiered-on despite the grief my father could raise from the most innocent of perceived offences.

Ed didn’t have the best childhood either, and spent a lot of time, with his brothers, wards of the province. Having come from the tough Cabbagetown neighborhood, in Toronto, he was raised to be tough, and relentlessly hardened by reality. Fatherless, responsible for the family welfare most of the time, he’d learned that being gentle meant being vulnerable. He never gave the appearance of being a push-over that’s for sure. It made my mother’s life tough, and I often stepped between them, willing to risk my own neck to keep the cruiser away from the door. My peace of course, is that they patched their marriage up, Ed changed into a much kinder human being, and my mother was pleased to have calmer waters in the final decades of their life together. While I still prefer to dwell on happier times, I’m still abundantly aware, after many years, that it’s necessary to confront the adversity of personal history. It’s also true that there were many more good times than bad, in our family, and my love for the old neighborhood, in Bracebridge, Ontario will never dwindle.

The note I made last evening, was really for my lads, Andrew and Robert, who will inherit this journal and all my years of story-inscribing in these blogs......and in the stacks of publications I’ve, at one time or another, contributed columns. The note was about a game of road hockey I want them to play, some snowy Christmas Eve (after I’ve departed this mortal coil), up on that block of Alice Street where I played a thousands games during my years on the hill......Hunt’s Hill, that is! I want them to link the tradition of those years with their present, in celebration of good times in old places dear to our hearts. I want them to just show up, with sticks, ball and toques, chip off four big chunks of snow for goal-posts (as we did because we couldn’t afford nets), and with their buddies and family members, set up for a three period memorial game in my honor. How vain is this? Well, it doesn’t have to be a memorial. Just a “for fun” gathering that rekindles an activity us Hunt’s Hill / Alice Street kids enjoyed every day of the cold winter in Muskoka. We continued games on asphalt when the snow cover melted away but we played, and played. It didn’t matter that we were short changed a neighborhood park or even a big parking lot we could set up a makeshift arena. The road, as bumpy as it was, served our interests just fine.

It might seem a tad morbid to be planning your own tribute hockey game, but my boys will know just how passionate I have been in life, about preserving family legacies.....and keeping important traditions alive. I want them, in their lives, to know that good and memorable times have very little to do with money, and the privilege that can buy. We were a modest neighborhood and very few of us had money to spare. We lived from pay cheque to pay cheque like everyone else, and those on fixed incomes had gardens in their backyards, and they canned fruit and vegetables every fall, after the modest harvest. We had to be frugal. We didn’t care, or even think about hardship......we were too busy being thankful for our own blessings, our own daily rewards. We were too busy living to worry about what we didn’t have, or what others did. When we commenced the ball hockey game of the day, or under the lamplight for evening games, all differences were forgotten and we listened instead, to the lucky bloke selected to be Foster Hewitt, who would joyfully provide the game’s play by play. If you’d asked any one of us at that moment, what it was like to be poor, we wouldn’t have known how to respond. I knew my family couldn’t afford new boots because my feet were always wet, and most of us were playing with broken sticks we found at the arena, with short shafts and half blades, because we couldn’t buy new ones. Poor? We were resourceful more than we were poor. Rich kids called us that when they saw the soles of our shoes flapping and slapping noisely at recess, or when we had to wear the same clothes day after day....but it wasn’t the kind of slur we found hard to live with.

I’m fond of my old neighborhood for what it didn’t have. The was no need to offer an apology when a shared dinner was meatloaf, and “everything-in-it stew,” or cheese-dusted macaroni. Many of my mates enjoyed peanut butter and jam sandwiches my mother made for intermissions....washed down with cold glasses of water to tide us over for another period of rigorous play.

The pay-off of all this modesty, was finishing dinner, and getting the chance to have yet another game of road hockey.....or in the spring, a pick-up game of baseball....the fall, a game of football on the modest grid-iron of our small front lawn. It was a safe and caring neighborhood, and for all that it didn’t have, it was blessed with an unpretentious honor, we upheld, wherever and whenever a show of prowess was required. We had many sporting encounters with other neighborhoods, and I would say Hunt’s Hill was always a top contender.

I want my boys to take their kids up to that sort stretch of old asphalt, to play just one more game, and to think, not just about their old dad, but about all the aspiring athletes, who had such great fun making the best out of every day in a worthy hometown. Maybe they’ll hear the echo of cheers and voices from legend, and the faint play by play of Randy Carswell, an import to the neighborhood, who always volunteered to be Foster Hewitt......and simply wouldn’t take no for an answer. I don’t want the boys, or family, to get misty eyed about my request, or get caught up in a perpetual mood of sympathy and mourning. I’ve had a damn fine life, with no regrets about choices I’ve made. I’d like to think they would find a connection with me, they’ve never really had in our time together,..... as team-mates (in spirit) not just the tedium of the father / sons relationship. Because I’d be there, on that snowy Christmas Eve, in my ghost-wear, just as I played every Christmas Eve for my entire tenure at the Alice Street apartments. During a truly enjoyable time of my life.....when kids spent most of their days outdoors, and even more time wondering what it would be like if this stretch of frozen roadway, was actually Maple Leaf Gardens, the lamplight, the beam over centre ice, the limelight of the official face-off.

I suppose you and I do have some warm memories of the places we used to live.......afterall!

2011-02-27T15:23:00.001-08:00

I TRADED STRESS FOR THE OPEN ROAD - I FOUND ANTIQUES ALONG THE WAY

Even as a kid I was hopelessly nostalgic. I kept everything I was ever given, and I would have kept the packaging as well, if my mother Merle, hadn’t made a habit of morning forays into my room to “tidy up.” She was happy doing this, and I didn’t half mind. It wasn’t until she gave my classic toys away one day, including my table-top hockey game that I got a tad mad. Until she told me about the poor grandmother around the corner, who had taken-in her two grandchildren, and had nary a toy for them. I knew those two kids. They needed those toys more than I did. As long as I still had my ball glove, hockey net and stick, and my bike, well, I was good.

As I’ve mentioned previously, in this blog collection, working in the newspaper industry was far too stressful for a guy like me. I’ve always worked long and hard to bypass stress. It didn’t matter how long, or how much copy I’d written in advance, the aura of a newspaper office was contaminated with unnecessary stresses. I was always organized and prepared for eventualities. I anticipated poop hitting the fan, and always had plan “B” and “C” ready to roll, to make things right. It wasn’t enough. We had too many bosses, too many folks to please, beyond the readers, and it was necessary, in order to remain on the payroll, to channel job tension into newfound energy. The gathered motivation to pursue other interests. Long before I walked out that newsroom door for the last time, I was already into my third year in the antique business, building it to a level of profitability, so that when I finally quit the old day job, the turn around would be immediate.

I can’t tell you how exciting it was, for this worn-out editor, to hit the road on Saturday mornings, without a camera and notepad, to enjoy a day of antique picking around our beautiful region. What a joy to witness a spring / summer / autumn morning in one of the most alluring hinterlands on earth. No matter how many times I passed a lakeland scene, or through a cathedral of overhanging maples, I would notice something I’d never seen before. It was on those early career antique-hunts, that I developed my greatest, most insightful appreciation of Muskoka. Suzanne and I, and frequently our two boys, would take along some breakfast fixings, and enjoy the sights and sounds of Muskoka in season. We saw every kind of wildlife known to this region of Canada. We took notice of all the life around us. It was as important as hunting for treasure. It would have most certainly been much less fulfilling, if we had only been concerned about racing from yard sale, flea market and antique shop to auction. These were, to borrow a famous line, the days of our lives. With the boys grown up, and running their own collectible music shop today, here in Gravenhurst, I do miss our countryside trips in quest of neat stuff. Suzanne and I move a little slower now, and stop frequently between venues, to admire the view, have a wee picnic, maybe a stroll, and even get a little nostalgic about the way it all began......these adventures, to calm the nerves of young parents, reduce the workday stress of writer and teacher,...... and experience life and culture thriving in our midst.

Some of my contemporaries in the business, have very little use for our antique hunting philosophy. I’ve never tried to convert them. They take their enterprise more seriously, and will race from venue to venue as if their lives depended on it. I know, with our more relaxed approach, we do miss big finds and great buys, and it undoubtedly does cost us making a larger profit. And yet, no matter how many times I acknowledge our less-stressful approach, and how nice it would be to make a bit more money at our trade, I could no sooner change to their break-neck regimen.....than find reason to accelerate through a mist-laden pasture of a Muskoka farmstead. I dawdle as a rule. I’d sooner quit antiquing altogether, than impose stress upon what has long been so darn much fun.

I still believe, although my competitors argue I’m delusional, that a more patient, determined hunt, is often more productive and profitable, than hustling from sale to sale......and adhering to a rigid schedule. We will stay and chat with vendors, and family, who are hosting estate sales, often being invited into storage areas others have not been exposed. It shouldn’t surprise any one that kindly conversation makes friends, and can build a significant, immediate trust between buyer and seller. While my competitors can show a list of 20 sales visited, they’d laugh at the fact we’d only visited a third of the venues in the same amount of time. Well, we don’t brag and never hold “show and tells,” to prove our trip was just as fruitful.

Years ago we got recruited to open a storefront antique business. I joined with a fellow staff member in the news business, to open a small collectible shop, in a unfinished basement of a mainstreet building in Bracebridge. In about a year the partnership was a disaster.....because we had teamed up with rookies in the business......who believed the money would be flying through the front door from opening to closing each day. Having had an earlier business, further down the street, in the late 1970's, I’d already recognized business would be slow in the winter, more vigorous in the summer......as is Muskoka’s long tradition in the tourist industry. The departure of one partner welcomed another, and then another after that, until I’d simply had enough. Our family was still young, and the stress of business was paralleling the newspaper years. We moved the business home in the mid 1990's, and we began selling our wares online. I work as a writer when I want, and we travel for the antique trade every weekend. In the summer, with Suzanne on a break from teaching, we are on the road every day. And it’s glorious. But it’s at our speed. We stop to smell the flowers and make no apology.

The antique business was opened in the late 1980's as a future retirement business. We knew it would take us ages to master a very complex and demanding trade. We have had no choice but to remain patient. So far so good. We have blips like every business but the annual sales figures are looking better, and we’re definitely feeling contented we started retirement planning so early in life.

As we both very much like old stuff, from nostalgia to the primitive, we are always interested in the road from here to there, and the great potential that exists each day we take off for another countryside adventure. It is always interesting, at the end of each trip, to sit on the back bumper of the family truckster, looking at the day’s finds. Talk about eclectic. We wrote the book. But it is the togetherness we felt with the young lads, and the companionship we feel these days, with just the two of us, that is most fulfilling of this antique hunt. We get to experience and celebrate this magnificent lakeland region, the nice folks we meet along the way, and enjoy each other’s company in a wide variety of circumstances. To us, it’s our own “Zen and the art of Antique Hunting,” and we wouldn’t change a thing. Certainly not for profit alone.

2011-02-24T17:51:00.001-08:00

PATIENCE FOR COLLECTING I NEVER HAD AS A WRITER

It has long driven my good wife nuts, how I can dawdle in a flea market or antique mall, and seemingly forgetting our wedding vows.....or something like my blind obedience. Suzanne is very good at ignoring what she’s not interested in, whereas I am always looking for the “sleeper” piece, no matter what that might represent. She has never offered an apology for having a narrow gaze, when it comes to antiques and collectibles that interest her. I’ve tried over many years to prove that being a generalist dealer, means we have to make our money from flipping whatever items we can acquire which are under-valued. Admittedly in the antique profession, we all have our quirks and methodology. I like making money just as much as securing big finds to add, instead, to our permanent collection. But I’m not adverse to trying anything once or twice, if it affords our business a little profit. I know from experience that if you stay in your lane, and refuse a good buy when you meet it at the crossroads, you’ll miss out on making a regular profit......but you’ll have museum collection to show your friends.

I started out in the profession broke and it’s fair to say we’ve operated frugally ever since. While I stood with associates at auction sales, who’d think nothing of dropping several grand per sale.....just for run of the mill collectibles, if we spent a couple of hundred dollars, we were living the high life. I might have felt disadvantaged at times, being amongst those who had fat wallets but I didn’t let it stop me from making good buys on higher profit antiques. I did a lot of refinishing myself, and by and large, my colleagues preferred store-ready inventory. I’d get a car load of “in the rough” pieces, eager to put in the work myself, and get a wage for doing the finishing. Sometimes it worked and frequently it didn’t, and I’d lose a few bucks. I’m slow at the restoration side of the business.

I developed a discipline about expenditures. I adopted the “frugal antique hunter,” as my business theme, and since the mid 1970's, it’s worked pretty well. There have been a lot of set-backs. I’ve often had to change my buying habits because the “fat wallet gang” would start moving in on my territory. There’s nothing worse at a small town auction, than “bidder shadowing.” I wasn’t a great strategist but I knew there was no choice but to play along. I continually misled my competitors and stuck them on many occasions, with boxes of books I knew were “dogs” (no-chance-of-profit books), or gatherings of quilts in poor, stained and rotting condition. I’d let them follow me on bids, and appear anxious to win at all costs. I’ve put in many theatrical performances on the auction stage. Then, at a peak, I’d simply disappear for a coffee, leaving their’s as the highest bid. Oh boy was there a lot of grumbling then. Over time, they got the message, that to follow me takes the will of Indiana Jones. Every bid against me was a gamble. Those items I really wanted, I usually got because my shadows got spooked early in the bidding. I’d jump a bid by twenty to fifty dollars, from a normal five dollar increment, and like a missed heartbeat, they’d go back to drinking their coffee, leaving me to my treasure. They preferred bragging about their antique investments, to their cronies anyway. I had to do what it took, to make a few dollars stretch a little further. I’ve never been to an auction yet that mind-games weren’t in full production.....and theatrics a means to an end.

Over the decades I’ve learned how to be patient, frugal and profitable out of necessity. I loved the industry so much, and admired (like a racoon with a shiny object) all kinds of wonderful antiques, from art and old glass, historic lighting, vintage fabric, crocks, to old bottles and the list has no end. To get in, and stay in, I had to learn how to scrounge. It was that simple. And I had to watch a lot of great pieces walk away with someone else, because we were on a tight budget. Yet to any young antique enthusiast, I would always say the same thing,....... as I’ve had as my own mantra......a good antique hunter doesn’t need a fat wallet.....but does require a massive interest in self-education about old stuff in general. You will perish in the business if you are under-informed. I’ve watched the destruction of many antique hopefuls because they thought they knew it all......but obviously didn’t.

The antique profession is still a ruthless, no holds barred, cut-throat enterprise, even at the modest shop level. It’s like Charles Dickens himself penned our respective characters. Even the most modest, unassuming ma and pa operations, can fool the unsuspecting shopper or seller. While this is not to suggest anything about being unsavory or dishonest.......it is very much to affirm that there are many sharks in the antique dealer / collector’s pool.......and just because a shop and shopkeeps look unassuming, don’t think you’re going to beat them for a Group of Seven sketch for a hundred bucks. If you’re on the selling side, looking to make a quick profit, off a Group of Seven knock-off, think again before you commit yourself to their scrutiny. Some of the smartest and most cunning antique dealers I’ve met, over thirty years, are ones holed-up in these small, unassuming, collectible nooks and modest crannies. They’re good business people. They buy antiques like the late, great, Will Rogers. They know how to horse trade and get the better deal. There’s nothing wrong with this. They’ve earned their stripes in the business by daily dealings with thousands of other cut-throat, no-holds barred antiquers, to get where they are.

On my own travels these days, I’m looking for interesting art pieces more than anything else. I will buy primitives, especially Canadiana, and old interesting wooden trunks I can restore for re-sale. Son Andrew took his mother aside, one day, while I had my head stuck in a musty old steamer trunk, and said, “You know, I’ve never seen dad happier, than when he’s got something to refinish.” He wasn’t speculating on this. They’ve all witnessed me knotted up and frustrated at the typewriter, working on some manuscript or column, and recognize the differences between hand crafting and mind bending. I might get frustrated when an insect lands on my freshly varnished pine harvest table but it’s nothing compared to the cussing and foot stomping at the computer, when a proof-read through a feature story, turns into a war between a split personality......the writer and the other guy who taps at the keys for hours on end......both the same person but you’d never know it. One is always accusing the other of being an arse.

As a writer, I show as much patience as any one else in the profession. That’s not saying much of course. I drank heavily because I was a writer. I’d go to the local watering hole after work, and get into a fisticuff with another writer I may have called an arse or something mildly worse. I never drank once in my life, as a frustrated antique dealer. I’m so much more an antique hunter / dealer today than a writer. I love writing but there’s nothing I’d rather do, any day of the week, than find myself hopping from estate sale to flea market, antique mall to auction sale. As my writing career was a damnation to Suzanne, well, suffice to say antiquing isn’t much better, poor soul. She loves her Fenton glass collection, so I bait her before each trip......that somewhere before we hit the noon hour, we’ll have found a bit of cranberry or milk glass from the revered Ohio company. Suzanne will find a nice quilt or sewing antiquity, and eventually forget all about the Fenton, until I bring it up again......the very next time we head out on the open road.

I’m not cheap and if I had a million bucks to blow, I most surely would. Probably within a week. The difference with me however, is I would definitely get my money’s worth in antiques. If I was really proficient in acquisition, I might even be able to make a fifty percent profit or more. Many antique dealers aren’t satisfied unless their profit hits at least a hundred percent......upwards. But it’s nobody’s business what you pay for a find. Most of us are pretty good at getting quality pieces for rock bottom prices. So our mark-up is not based on fair play, it’s based on what we would like to achieve as a profit. Yes, we do win, and then again, we also lose occasionally. Some of us are greedier than others, and a few are too generous for their own good. I’ve met them all. I fall into the mid-zone. I’m not ruthless but I’m a hanger-on, and persistent where and when it counts. I’m patient because it suits my capital position. If you don’t have a big budget to flail about, then you have to be patient.....as the fisher in the meadow brook. Sooner or later it will pay off.

I’ve known some grand characters in the antique profession, who have taught me a lot about survival and improving my acquisition skills. I wasn’t a quick learner either. I guess those early teachers of mine were right all along, when they said “Teddy is interested in some things (girls) but mostly distracted.” It was the skirts, I’m telling you. I had a crush every fifteen minutes. As an antique hunter I had the same problem. I was always easily distracted. So after a few dozen bad buys, like bidding on glass and pottery that turned out to be either chipped or replicas, I learned how to focus, no matter how many auction chicks happened to be in close proximity.

When you’re bidding at auctions you must never be distracted.....by conversation or a pretty face. I’ve pulled right away from crowds and friends, when I’m particularly interested in winning an auction bid. I want to hear clearly and know who I’m bidding against. How bad do they want the piece. I have to judge their faces. It’s my business to know this and know it well. Suzanne swears I develop horns when I’m bidding. I can’t feel them but I’m sure she’s right. It’s real important to develop that immediate relationship with the auctioneer, such that he or she doesn’t miss a critical bid, before hitting the gavel down. I win about fifty percent of what I’m going after. Keep in mind, the folks I’m bidding against are sharp as tacks, and are using the same strategy as I am, to scare the back bidders off. It’s like chess but meaner. From what I’ve read about auctions from the old days, in Europe, the local sales’ tactics and competition are mere child’s play. But seeing as I don’t go to many auctions in England these days, I stick to honing my skills with what the region offers-up during the sale season.

I hate losing at auctions, even the silent ones run by local thrift and charity shops. Knowing when to stop bidding, just as playing the slots at the casino, is of critical importance. Many antique dealers and collectors have exceeded their budgets on one piece, because they got caught-up in the personality of the bid......meaning the bidding became a grudge match between patrons, and the “I’ve got more money than you,” sort of showdown. When the winning bidder, having spent 50 percent more than he should have,finally gets the prize.....geez, it’s always so entertaining to watch for the confident look we call, “Of course I knew what I was doing.” They also throw back their shoulders and exist the sale, looking pinched and about to wet themselves.

I used to write a column years ago, called the “Auction Block,” and it was great fun let me tell you. The auctioneers despised me for giving away business secrets. While it’s true I had a much more difficult time getting any bargains, especially having pissed them off, in oh so many ways by what I wrote, it was still worth every drop of ink expended. The biggest fight I had was with an auctioneer from Huntsville, who wanted me fired, for writing a column about the dangers of buying used mattresses, and upholstered furniture from auctions. I didn’t write that folks shouldn’t buy them, but rather, be awfully careful that what you think is a good buy, and a nice piece of furniture, isn’t also a residence for bed bugs. I was right but he figured that because he advertised in our paper, he had a God given right to a retraction.....refuting the bed bug claim. He said I was costing him business because folks weren’t buying the mattresses any more. Even my boss asked, “Do you mean all of these people are reading Currie’s column? Heck we should give him a raise for increasing our readership.” Well, I survived the advertiser’s challenge, continued to write cautionary columns from time to time, and expected I wouldn’t be welcome at his sales from that point onward.

I want to reminisce a bit more about the antique and auction circuit, in the near future, some gems of information, taken from those early columns......a period where I spent half my life standing at these sales waiting, for my items of choice, to arrive on the auction block. There were many humourous moments, believe me. I had no problem whatsoever, coming up with new column material weekly that’s for sure.

More antique stuff to come.

Just one more point. The reason I’m authoring these blogs about antiques and collectibles, and dredging up my glory days as a published columnist......is that, in a fit of impatience and frustration, I threw out all my old newspaper files from the 1970's to about 2005. It was the writer winning out.....temporarily, over the antique hunter. Having my new material on blog-sites, is archival, as much as it is for present consumption. I’m not likely to throw any of this stuff away because I’m not computer savvy enough to know how. Son Robert looks after all my computer needs. I just type at this keyboard and grumble. He gets the editorials on-line. In return, I’ve appointed him the keeper of all this intellectual property, should the old man vaporize one day, while having one of his tantrums. I’ve always felt spontaneous combustion would be a fitting way for me to go.....you know?

Robert just shakes his head at my mockumentry demise, and agrees to profit from my writing.

He’s a nice kid.

2011-02-22T17:38:00.001-08:00

ANTIQUES AND COLLECTIBLES NOT FOR THE FAINT HEARTED

I don’t socialize with other writers, for fear our inflated egos will cause some sort of nasty character implosion. Except for a select few columnists in the daily press, and some former writers I would have taken a bullet for, I don’t wish to know them beyond their daily offerings. I’m sure if they knew me, it would be mutual. My experience with writers in general, when sober, has always seemed to me like a test of willpower and endurance.....like how many beers it takes to loosen lips. We used to do this constantly, in the old news gathering days, to free up information from competing reporters. We got more scoops from the competition than out on the hustings. It cost us. Lots of big bar bills. There was a lot of poop hitting the fan when both our papers hit the newstands, showing we replicated and expanded on all their front-page scoops.

I don’t make friends of those who might wish to take the bacon off my plate, when I’m not looking. I don’t join literary societies and I refuse to be rescued by those who believe there is safety in numbers. Most writers I know around here, wouldn’t want a big mouth like me in their mutual admiration sessions anyway. I don’t believe there’s any strength in numbers, when it comes to hungry writers, looking for new gigs. Just more creative intrusions to leap-frog ahead.

My experience with associate writers, like my contemporaries in the antique profession, is that it is perfectly acceptable practice to climb on one another’s back to gain the advantage. The very idea of helping one another is laughable, because it’s a real game of Survivor out on the hustings....... with very few paying jobs. Lots of writer-kind and too few job opportunities. Everybody is looking for a “rare” opportunity to work in the industry. Those who have jobs won’t be giving them up voluntarily. For every working writer there are probably a dozen waiting in the wings, or hovering somewhere close by.......and it’s a publisher’s bonanza......there is no shortage of “willing to work for less” writers.

I don’t wait in the wings, and I couldn’t hover for more than a couple of minutes but I’m always interested in a writing gig......especially the rare kind that exchanges work for folding money. As with thousands of other writers, also wishing liberation from the publisher’s political protocol, and the regimen of writing to sell papers, I opted out of the paid ranks back in the spring of 1990. I’d had my last fight with a publisher about money. When I was asked what was most important.......being an employee of the firm, or being an antique dealer (which I had commenced three years earlier), I replied with a determined snarl, “That would be an antique dealer.” We parted company soon after. I never looked back.

I loved newspaper work and adored most of my colleagues, and at the end, my production of editorial copy was most often double what they demanded “by list” each week. I was a copy producing machine. I worked from home, frequently got up at 3 a.m. to write-up council news stories, and had them into the office for a final edit by 9 a.m. Included in this bulk of copy were other news stories I’d been assigned, and numerous other features I offered basically free of charge. Working at home, where I look after our two lads as a Mr. Mom, allowed me tremendous flexibility to work when I could; after they had begun a nap, or at bedtime. For two publishers, over about three years of working from my home office, they were making money off my productivity. I was working way more than if I’d been stuck in an uninspiring office all day. I was able to conduct as many phone interviews, and in person meetings, as I would have in a formal office. The “away from the office” format was new, just as it was having a feature writer who admitted he wasn’t going to put all the proverbial eggs in one basket. I was saving them money by not using office resources, and with the copy being produced, likely eliminated the need for at least another part time employee. But the fact they couldn’t actually see me working was bothersome. They must have imagined all kinds of stuff going on......but never actually took the time to weigh the benefits of a highly productive writer, happy to work alone.

So when we parted, it was generally assumed “I would never work in this town again!” That’s pretty much true. I’ve been writing copy for free ever since. The trade-off is usually a print advertisement in the publication I’m contributing. Since 1990 I have had two disagreements with publishers about editorial content. In both cases, without feeling any inclination to debate the issue, I simply pulled out, satisfied I’d enjoyed a good run, and that there would be two more publishers out there somewhere, looking for editorial generosity. I’m far more interested in writing for an appreciative publisher, and audience, these days, than making strides within the newspaper profession as a staffer. After many years at the grind, I know my writing suffered. I wasn’t happy and it showed in my work. I was far more of a writing purist than I knew back then. It was only when I started to work from home that I realized what I had been sacrificing, stuffed into a too-small office with too many hung-over and self-absorbed reporters. I loved them though!

Funny thing, I took creative writing and history at York University, back in the mid 1970's. I started out as a poet / historian who would later become a writer / historian / antique dealer. I wrote my first book of poems by the spring of 1975, had thrown it in the garbage by the winter of 1976, launched plans for an antique shop in the spring of 1977, graduated university, opened Old Mill Antiques in the fall of that year, in uptown Bracebridge, and got a chance to write a column about collecting for the local press. Working on the business with my parents was a disaster, my girlfriend dumped me for a guy who fixed her car once, I started in the news business, gave up on antiques, set about to write forever as a profession, found out that wouldn’t work, got married, had kids, opened Birch Hollow Antiques, kept writing, opened an antique shop also on upper Manitoba Street in Bracebridge, fought with publisher, quit, re-hired by another publication, ran shop, quit writing, and lived happily as a Mr. Mom / Antique Dealer / Freelance Writer from the 1990's to the present. A “mish-mash” you say? I always had something to fall back on when one or the other professions fell through. The difference today is that we will never surrender our antique enterprise, as it is the profession Suzanne and I have geared up, over all these crazy years, for retirement income. I expect to be a “free” lance writer until I can write no longer.

When I had a bad week at the newspaper, the weekends were for antiquing. Auction-going. What I began in 1974 was my safety-net through the tumultuous love-hate years as an editor. Even on weekends now, Suzanne and I free-wheel as collectors, hitting all kinds of interesting venues, estate sales, antique shops and malls, church sales, thrift shops, flea markets, and any yard or lawn sales within an easy commute. I have never found any pre-occupation as stress-relieving as the antique profession. Now, of course, if you are going to auction sales, or scrumming at estate sales with competitors, it can admittedly get a tad heated. Not as bad as a newsroom at deadline but close. Generally speaking, I’ve never had an antique hunting moment, or competition for a piece(s), that was greater than the frustration of dealing with a publisher at deadline, whining about something or other, I didn’t give a rat’s arse about. There’s a lot to be said for the freedom of being your own boss, that’s for sure. Out on the hustings, well, we’re the bosses and if we choose to snooze while our competitors pick all the good stuff......that’s our misfortune and failure as dealers. As I felt working from home, without the boss looking over my shoulder, I have always been hard on myself when it comes to output and outcome. So when I might have slacked off because opportunity prevailed, such as working from home, I felt too inspired to just sit around watching television. It’s the same when we’re hunting treasure. It’s too much fun to be considered work. So you might say, we play even harder.

When I started in the news business, I realized my patience was limited to about a decade. Bang on! Every year it became more difficult to refrain from storming out of the office, and tossing my typewriter down the road. I had always been a reliable employee and only took off a few days in ten years, as a result of illness. There were too many people to please in the industry but the only ones I cared about were the readers. My bosses didn’t like my indifference to them. My argument was always the same. If the circulation is going up, we’re getting new ads all the time, and the consensus of the readership is that we are publishing a good, and responsible newspaper, what the hell does it matter that we don’t see eye to eye on every issue. I always stepped aside, if the publisher at the time, wanted to write an editorial. I always refused to be told what to write, as an editorial, or from what perspective I should adopt. I simply stood up from my typewriter, or keyboard, and welcomed them to sit and knock themselves out. This befuddled them into a stupor, because they were used to getting their way. Most did what they were asked because they couldn’t afford to be fired. I understood this, and felt sorry they were in this position.

It bugged management that I wouldn’t conform just to get a wee cheque......and it was most definitely a small cheque......so I just decided to quit while the going was good, as my antique business was humming along. It was the right decision. I began to hate writing. That wasn’t right.

There are times when I’ll notice an opening at one of the local papers, or regional magazines, for a reporter / writer, and occasionally I’ll respond just to see if old barriers are still in place......and they are. I never get the chance to meet a publisher or editor in person........suffice to say they all know about the belligerent former editor who said, when asked, “so, do you want to be a writer or an antique dealer.” My response has never been different, and I have no intention of changing my stalwart attitude for another wee cheque. I’d like to be respected as both a writer and a profitable antique dealer. My wife says I’m a good writer and, as she keeps the books for the business, also applauds our financial prowess. I know, I know. Where’s her objectivity?

It must drive that old management of yore nuts, that I didn’t wither-up and blow away after parting company. Outside of a short hiatus of well less than a year, while I was working on business upgrades, I have never been without published work in one form, one venue or another up to the present......and I’m comfortably booked well into the future. And I’ve never been more contented with either discipline.

A writer associate of mine had lost a paying gig a while back, just before the recession but had turned his focus to writing a second book. When I asked why he hadn’t re-introduced his column in barter, for something like an advertisement, he looked at me and said with his eyes; “I don’t work without pay.” I suggested that a byline is always payment. It keeps you in the game. In his case, I pointed out, that a column in exchange for an advertisement for his new book, would make perfect sense to future sales and income. Everyone gets a taste of the action. They get a column from a respected writer, and the author gets the bragging right about being “published.”

There are thousands of bloggers of highly read and regarded sites, considered some of the best writers in the world, contributing their work without a dime of remuneration. That’s freedom. I wonder how many of them are antique dealers as well.

What’s so special about the antique business? Where and how shall I begin? More blogs coming soon.

2011-02-21T17:24:00.000-08:00

SERENITY NOW - OUT TO THE SUGAR BUSH

I can place myself in this painting quite easily. (A bald, portly guy, likely coming out of the sugar shack licking his fingers). One of my favorite March feature news assignments, was to visit a number of Muskoka’s sugar bushes, to watch the gathering and the boiling of the sap. This painting, an oil on masonite, by Dan Titman, we believe, holds a special place for me, because I have never found a more serene place anywhere on earth......than a grove of maples bathed in spring sunlight. The sugar bush has always been my writer’s sanctuary. A woodland paradise that is as invigorating as it is relaxing. This is “serenity now,” as far as I’m concerned.

I purchased this little gem of Canadian art, on Friday, at a wonderful antique and collectable shop, which has only recently opened, on Mississauga Street E., in Orillia, known as Carousel Collectables. I’m an impulse buyer and this one was an impulse purchase. I have always been interested in historic themes, which shouldn’t surprise any one, and most recently I have acquired a wonderful watercolor depiction of a steamship (paddle-wheeler) from the early 1800's known as the Royal William. This is still being researched with the assistance of a Maritime Museum on the East Coast. Another attractive watercolor, purchased recently, is a waterscape of “Fairy Point,” and numerous boat houses, but we’re not sure whether this location is on one of Muskoka’s lakes or not. We’re thinking it might be Lake Joseph where there is a Fairy Island. Or a point of land on Huntsville’s Fairy Lake. We think it has too many structures to be Fairy Point in Algoma. Research is ongoing, as with many of my paintings collected for over thirty years. I’ll be running a picture of this in the near future.

But of all the art pieces overflowing the realm of sensible proportion, here at Birch Hollow, I adore this sugar bush painting the most. It profiles a parallel woodland setting, to what I have experienced many times before, here in the hinterland of beautiful Muskoka. My wife’s relative is Bill Veitch, who has been a legend in maple syrup making in the Ufford, Three Mile Lake, Windermere area for decades. I love venturing out to his sugar bush for the annual two day Pancake festival in April. A walk in the woods there, and like a sweeping time warp, you’re back in pioneer times. And it’s great if you’re a history junkie like me.

I greatly enjoyed accompanying my son Robert on a trip to the V.K. Greer Public School, in Port Sydney, a few years back, where they have a small but scenic operation. The tour was given at that time by John Duncan, a former outdoor education co-ordinator, and George Anderson, well known and respected amongst outdoor education students in our region.

My most fascinating sugar bush adventure, with son Andrew, was courtesy Jim Hillman and his son-in-law Brian Milne, who took us back to the maple grove off Golden Beach Road, not far from the former Bangor Lodge on Lake Muskoka. It was just a few miles from Bracebridge. I could have spent the rest of my life in and around that magnificent sugar bush, so hauntingly beautiful in the March sunlight. I sat on a stump and wrote an entire feature article for the Muskoka Sun, and the Muskoka Advance, two publications I penned features for, back in the 1990's. Jim was a grand old chap who adored any opportunity to get outdoors, and this was an absolute haven for anyone needing inspiration....... and who quite enjoys the spirit of co-operation. Operating the sugar bush, as they did, without the plastic lines running from tree to tree, was the way Jim and crew liked it......hard work but rewarding in so many ways. Watching the gathering of the sap, and then the sugaring-off, was right out of the pages of Canadian history.....right before my eyes. I was witnessing a cultural folk-art and it tasted pretty good as well. There’s something powerful about the smell of woodsmoke, the scent of thickening maple syrup, and the spring melt, that brought out the Thoreau in me......and what a Walden Pond it was. I sat there watching the steam billowing out of the shack and looking up into the dark web of overhead boughs, watching the sunlight blotching down onto the old decaying snow, melting away into the forest soil. If heaven could be half as nice!

Jim was happy to show me all the old tools and artifacts he had collected, and conserved over the decades, from when he first began tapping the maple grove. He had numerous wooden spiles and treenware, molds all over the place, for shaping the syrup into sugar candies. He had a marvellous little museum out there in the Muskoka woodlands, and I’m so glad I had this opportunity to visit. Jim passed away shortly after my visit, and I have often wondered whether his buddies still venture out to the property, and fire-up the pit below the large tin trays. I think it has probably ceased operation but I’m very much honored that Jim would have thought to invite me out to his paradise. I had an up-close and personal opportunity to record history, and capture this folk art at its purist, while Jim was still in his heyday. He loved that place. It was a precious sanctuary that’s for sure. His generosity made us Currie lads pretty happy that day. Andrew still talks about it. He got to ride an ATV while I walked to the sugar shack.

This little painting reminds me of my numerous outings to regional sugar bushes. It incorporates a little from each that I’ve visited. I have it illuminated on a stand now, and in the recent blustery evenings here at Birch Hollow, it has been so wonderfully relaxing, just to sit back, with a buffalo robe (we have two) over my legs, and admire the history of maple syrup making in Canada.

We haven’t been able to situate the painting or the artist, as of yet, but we believe it is the work of a regional artist from Quebec. If you know anything more about the painting or know the work of the artist, please let me know.

I wander from antique shop to antique mall, thrift shop to yard sale, auction to estate sale, looking for art pieces that inspire. I got lucky this past week. I visited the right antique shop at the right time. I had a few dollars tucked away, just in case I found something for the permanent collection. What perfect timing for a sugar bush celebration.

2011-02-17T07:34:00.001-08:00

TRAINS, TRAIN STATIONS AND FREIGHT CARTS - THE DREAM ESCAPE FROM ORDINARY

I don’t know what it was about Bracebridge that made the train so much more intrusive in our daily lives. It must have been the Muskoka River valley and those wickedly cold winter nights, that made the train horn stab through the night air like a knife-blade. I lived up on what was, and is still called, Hunt’s Hill. The train station was located just to the north of the Hunts Hill bridge, and a stone’s throw from the old Albion Hotel......real old even by 1966. We used to get a kick out of sitting on an elevated parking border, adjacent to the tracks, and watching the drunks get tossed out the front door by the bouncer. It’s true what they say. The bouncer didn’t need to open the door with one arm, while tossing the patron out with the other. He wouldn’t use any arm to open the door because the unlucky boozer’s head would suffice. It was a two arm toss onto the cement at the doorway. I loved the view from there. One night I watched the same guy get tossed out three times. Each time, crashing head first into the door, with the warning, “And don’t come back ya bum!” That had to hurt. The head and the downtrodden’s feelings.

It was the 1960's. We had just arrived in town during the winter of 1966, in time to watch local lad, Roger Crozier, playing net for the Detroit Red Wings against Montreal, in that year’s Stanley Cup final. The Wings didn’t win but Roger was awarded the Conn Smythe Trophy as the playoff’s most valuable player. I liked the fact I was now from the same hometown as Roger Crozier. What a blessing it was then to one day actually work for Roger, as public relations director of the Muskoka Branch of the Crozier Foundation. I digress.

The hollow between two hillsides, along the river valley toward the Bracebridge Falls, did something to the sound of the train, such that for us, it seemed to be coming through the wall of our apartment. True enough there wasn’t much insulation in those walls. Outside, it was just crazy clear. Playing road hockey, on Alice Street, you’d half expect to see the locomotive light rising over the hill at the end of the street. The sound echoed and resonated all over the place and somehow joined back together as a stream of sound.....after all the respective vibrations must have bounced back off the architecture of Manitoba Street buildings. Even in the humid air of July nights, the arrival and departure of trains across three crossings, where the horn had to be sounded well in advance, became part of my life and times. I didn’t hate it. I was unsettled by it on occasion. Rather, it was kind of a respite for an over-active kid anyway, because I’d always pause to hear it cross the Toronto Street intersection with River Road. I always thought about where it was coming from, and where it might be was headed. It became an adventure in thought because in actuality we didn’t have much need for rail travel. We didn’t have any money for train trips either. Dreaming of a trip was cheap and I could still amble home in time for dinner. That kept my mother off my back. I was to be home from all my daydreams by five o’clock. No exceptions. A minute late and she suspected I’d been up to .....as she used to say....”NO GOOD!” I tried not to give her any excuse for an intervention. I was up to no good most of the time back then but we all were as mates. Fortunately the town clock tower was within my sight-line from the train station platform.

I have watched a number of television documentaries, and read many books, on the romance of trains and travel by rail.....one that particularly fascinated me was about an American photographer, who had opted to capture images of every remaining steam locomotive crossing the state. It was at the time when steam was being replaced by diesel engines.....and he felt it was critical to national heritage, to capture these remaining images of the old iron workhorses on their final runs. His originals are worth thousands of dollars each......but don’t expect to find many. They are fine art and nostalgia rolled up in one.

I missed the era of the steam engines by quite a margin. None the less I held a fascination about trains, partly because I believed they offered “the dreamer”......”.me,” the free right and privilege to board via imagination, and ride from one side of the country to the other...... having neither ticket nor timetable to return. Except being very aware when my mother Merle was bellowing about “Teddy it’s time to come home!” Or something like that but not so kindly. From so many different positions up on that Hunt’s Hill plateau, did I hear that train horn, and stop in my tracks to hear it pass. It seemed important, at the time, to do this. If you were a kid who daydreamed a lot, you will understand this. Even if I was on my bike, I’d stop for a moment, and judge whether it was possible or not, to make it to the edge of the hill in time, just to watch it cross the intersection. It was an picturesque scene as it passed by the multi-story backs of the Manitoba Street business community, and of course the old clock tower of the former federal building.

On lay-about Saturdays, the local Hunt’s Hill gang, of Rick Hillman, his brother Al, Don Clement and Jim Niven, would wind up at the train station, where we might......just possibly, engage the huge iron-wheeled freight cart that used to sit up on the elevated portion of the station. There was a wooden ramp with strips of wood across, which was supposed to slow the cart down when being pulled to track level by station staff. When we hung out there, I don’t think there was a full-time staff or station manager. We used to get into the lobby and just sit there, pretending we were passengers. I never remember seeing anybody tending the ticket counter. It was a sad and lonely place in those years. As for the freight cart, well, the cleats on the ramp only served to make the ride that much more exciting. We’d often jump aboard and the last one to park his behind on the top, had to get off and push us down the ramp. You want to talk about watching your life pass before you. I know it’s true. I didn’t hear that anecdote for years to come but when I did, (about an unrelated event), I thought about that freight cart. Jesus it almost killed us.

Most of the time we just found time to sit on the ramp, and wait for the arrival of the next train.....passenger or freight. While we thought about how neat it would be to jump on a boxcar for a trip north or south, each time we had the opportunity, we found a convenient excuse. “I’ll do it another day.....it’s almost dinner time.” If my mother even thought I’d been contemplating such a ridiculous adventure, she would have forbidden me to come anywhere near this old station. I couldn’t risk that. I had too much fun hanging out here to gamble on parental intervention.

I was a budding poet, even then, because while most of the kids my age, were looking at the mechanics of the belching, booming beast pulling the train, I was imagining adventures and thinking about all the places these incoming and outgoing trains had visited......and how much joy it would bring, to look out from those passenger car windows, and see the world as a blur.....yet feel as a traveller would, anticipating the final destination. It was a dreamer’s portal, that rickety station, and the day I found it had been torn down......was the day I lost faith in elected officials, to be the stewards of our heritage resources. The Bracebridge Train Station should have, and could have been saved, if there had been the slightest will, to allow the public the right to an opinion on the matter.

Even today, here at Birch Hollow, in Gravenhurst, I will stop on a walk down the lane on a bitter winter’s eve, to hear the crisp horn of a passing train. Curiously, only a short distance further away from our house, than it was up on Hunt’s Hill, during those halcyon days of adventure-seeking childhood. These days I’m not thinking about escape, or signing onto some great cross-country adventure. I’ve had my tours on the rails, and enjoyed each trip. Still, I feel a pang of sentiment and nostalgia when I think back to us lads, sitting on the rail platform, pondering how our lives would turn out in the future. The rail and train became symbolic for us, even though we wouldn’t have thought about it in those terms. I realize it now. It’s why I will still stop in my tracks, while walking the dog or raking the leaves, and sigh.....I suppose, about the good old days, when the train station was our second home, and the rails were the romance of adventure, and the freight cart......very nearly our undoing.

The day my mother died, I remember having to stop at that same rail crossing, adjacent to the Hunt’s Hill bridge, with a box of Merle’s belongings brought from The Pines nursing home, further up on Hunt’s Hill. How strangely poetic it was, as I thought back to all the times her voice resonated, like a train horn, to bring me home for supper. She had about a two block range. No kidding. For additional irony, on the last trip moving my father’s few remaining possessions, (after Ed’s death last year), from his apartment at Bass Rock (just below the tracks on River Road), I had to stop again for a passing freight train. When the train had passed, and waiting for the warning lights to stop, I could have sworn I saw him standing on the other side......winking at his kid one last time. He and I had stood at that intersection so many times, while walking home from grocery shopping at Lorne’s Marketeria. And we watched a lot of trains pass over the years.

Yup, the train and its rails have run through my life......and I’m good with that!

2011-02-08T06:52:00.001-08:00

NOT ALL SERIOUS HERE AT BIRCH HOLLOW; WE HAVE A FEW LAUGHS

The first series of irreverent columns, about everyday stuff, appeared in The Herald-Gazette, in Bracebridge, back in the early 1980's. For a staunchly conservative publication my column was a tremendous change of pace. While I didn’t fancy myself a comedian, I greatly admired Paul Rimstead of the Toronto Sun. Most of the writers who worked in the Muskoka media with me, looked up to the former Bracebridge kid, who made it big in the print industry. He was a rogue, a champion of the underdog, the common schmoo who empowered those of us who drove crappy cars, like his Rusty Rita, and regular folks who lived pay cheque to pay cheque without complaining. He made being broke and hungover seem an accomplishment as it related to being a newspaper columnist. When he wrote about his Mexican “Liar’s Club,” (where he had retreated to write a book), we wanted to take the trip to join up. His foibles became ours. We were delighted to share his misfortunes because they made our screw-ups seem so much less significant.

My first Rimstead tribute column was entitled “Cold Coffee,” and amongst my peers it was known as “Tepid Tea,” “Sugarless Instant,” and “Bold Barfee.” I was thrilled they were interested enough in my work to find name parallels. I wasn’t offended. Until one day my writing colleague introduced me as the “Wall of Meat,” who writes “Bold Barfee.” Barney used to love attracting attention to my girth back then. It drove the publisher and the advertising manager nuts because they couldn’t avoid the fact our paper was winning on the newstands. Even if they hated the stuff, it was selling papers. It seems Muskoka, in that particular era, had endured quite enough conservative ink.

I went on to write an anecdotal golf column and another community piece called “Hometown Advantage,” for smaller publication. Without shame, I modeled them after Rimmer’s “Cocktales and Jockstraps,” book, and of course his regular Toronto Sun column. Of all the attributes I adored, number one was his lack of reverence for the old norms......like his bosses and politicians. I guess Rimmer did imprint on me more than I knew then, as I’ve had a life-long mistrust of politicians, and I don’t like bosses period. I’ve used humour to win arguments for decades, and I’ve found a lot of value in anecdote and the comedic jab, when having to deal with folks I detest. I sure didn’t like the ones who told me how I should write, and all the reasons I couldn’t use the word “fart” to describe how old they were.

A wise old bugger once told me I was too serious as a writer, and should try some basic comedy for a change of pace. That’s sort of what turned me on to Rimstead in the first place. I never finished one of his columns that I wasn’t happier than when I began.....usually laughing about it for the next hour or so. I realized that Rimmer was finding the light, anecdotal side of what I could only find as troubling or annoying. I didn’t want to read a paper just so that I could get mad at the world. I was already mad about stuff. I was a mid-20's history grad who was working outside his field, hacking out space-filler for the community press, and drinking way too much for my own good. What could be fun about this. First of all, I was looking at things as a reporter on the hunt for a front-pager. Thinking that a great piece of writing could catch the attention of the daily press. I might be able to “string” for the big boys. So for those first years I was bloody serious, all the time. I couldn’t see any way to break free from the cycle of poverty many of us were hopelessly mired. And yes indeed, a cycle of our own concoction. Getting a pay cheque and then drinking it. We were in a high stress business with overseers who wanted Pulitzer material from hacks who slept about four hours a night, ate grilled cheese sandwiches for breakfast, and opened the bar at noon. We were good and honest writers who were asked to work long hours for low pay. Thank God I found my sense of humor before they demoted me to occasional feature writer. It was one of those little publisher turn-ons. Make the senior writer with the bigger pay cheque quit, to free up money to hire two dumb asses instead, who couldn’t write classified ads without phoning their university professors for help.

The columns connected me to the lighter side of life. After the first year of embracing the comedic, anecdotal side of journalism, without ever touching the sides of fiction, north or south, I had actually developed quite a following. Which was quite an accomplishment because the subscribers were an intermingling of church-going folks, members of the Lions and Rotary Clubs, and Conservative Party faithful. Getting a laugh out of these goomers was tough, and I had to work up a blood-sweat every week to keep them onboard. There had never been an attempt by newspaper management to entertain readers before. Everything our paper did was to inform, promote and grandstand. During my period of editorship we had at least three columnists injecting personal follies, really neat, human interest events, as comedy, into the mainstreet print-offering. It’s not like we didn’t get criticism but the publishers liked the idea of weird stuff, and frankly anything with the exception of full frontal nudity to boost subscriptions. We did that by infusing light-heartedness into a rather humorless enterprise. Sure, we ran the big stories and did more investigative reporting than in the newspaper’s long history. But when it came to our columns, we demanded freedom of the press to indulge. And we did. It was bitter sweet. Over time we caught crap every week. There was a line and we crossed it a hundred times.

Since those days of breaking the crust off normal community newspaper-copy, I’ve always had a chuckle about the way it’s all snapped back like a too-tight rectum, reducing humor to the occasional typo that makes “rum” into “bum,” and “kiss” into “piss.” Even typos in my day were better. Consider the headline typos like “Prime Minister Trudeau to attend,” into “Prime Minister Turdeau to attend,”........and a caption under a front page photo that read “This young lady awaits the boat,” which when published read “This young lay awaits the boat.” We did it with a granny once too. “This grand old lay,” which I can tell you didn’t impress family, seeing as she was about to have her 100th birthday and apparently still interested, according to our paper, in getting some action.

I’m sort of glad I had this immersion into workplace comedy, and subscribed to Rimstead at such an impressionable time in my life. Thirty years later I’m still benefitting. I don’t get nearly as mad any more about much of anything. Things that might have driven me nuts around Birch Hollow, actually make me laugh today. If I’m going to die of a heart attack, by geez I want to go by laughing, not shaking a fist at a neighbor. This has helped me greatly defer anger and get on with solution finding. Solutions to what, you ask! I’ll tell you.

In all three homes we have lived, we have enjoyed the company of colorful neighbors who, bless their hearts, just wanted to live the good life at our expense. And they wanted to share their perception of good life with us. On Ontario street we had a neighbor who loved to urinate off his back deck, and if you happened to catch him in the act, he had no compunction about waving with a free hand. “Hi Suz,” he’d yell at my wife Suzanne. “Nice day eh?” He’s the same neighbor who set up a huge satellite dish on the property line, that kept hitting the top rail of our fence when he used his remote. He didn’t want to ask me to remove the plank so he just kept thwacking it with the dish until it broke. I remember standing there one day trying to fix the rail and having the dish nearly decapitate me, when the same media-obsessed neighbor was tuning in to a game show. “Sorry Ted, didn’t see you standing there.”

One day we were in our breakfast nook enjoying a cup of coffee, when all of a sudden the end of an eighteen wheeler came rolling by the end of the house. With chins against chests, we watched as a huge tractor trailer went into our neighbor’s backyard. There was our neighbor directing it back, nudging our fence on the way by. We ran out to see what the hell was going on, only to be met by a large group of local restaurant employees coming to decorate a Christmas float. I said to our neighbor, at the time, it might not have been a good idea bringing such a heavy vehicle and attachment over the unprotected (except by some earth) waterline. He was so decked out in Christmas cheer, nothing could penetrate his festive spirit. The very next morning, there was a swamp in our side yard as a result of a broken waterline. I told him about it, and because he was still getting some water pressure said “I’ll get to it in the spring.” In fact the only way it was fixed is when I talked to a friend on district public works, and told them about the leak, and that it was about twenty feet from the meter. In other words our neighbor, outside of getting a wet section of lawn, wasn’t paying for the lost water. Well, let’s just say it got fixed. Only to be broken several more times when Christmas floats arrived seasonally.

Another neighbor, when we lived on a rural property, also in Bracebridge, didn’t have a clue what a “pie shaped”lot looked like. He wasn’t big on surveys or the information about property lines they contain. He said he was too busy. Suzanne asked me who was cutting down trees, one morning, while she was feeding our young lads. Seeing as we’ve had problems with neighborly interventions before, I pulled on my boots and went out the front door. Our new neighbor on the right had strung a rope line, apparently to indicate the trees that were going to be cut that morning. Out of the twenty or so trees he was planning to execute, cause he admitted he liked the view more than the foliage, twenty or so were ours. I got his attention by jumping up and down, and when he turned the chainsaw off, thought there was a fire in our house. There was fire, by Jesus, and it was in my breast. I asked him, by what authority, he was cutting down our trees. “Your trees,” he said. “These are my trees, and I don’t want them here any more.” I stammered and stuttered in a blind rage, but managed to ask him the simple question, whether or not he had first consulted the survey to find the limits of his property line. “No,” was the answer. “We paid cash for the property and we didn’t have to provide a survey.” “Well you should still have a survey,” I said. “Do you know what it means to own a pie shaped lot?” He shook his head. “Well, you have one, and it means the back of your property retreats on both sides to a sharp point. In other words you don’t have a rectangle to work with. These trees are not within your property.” I avoided using the word “clown” to close the statement. “Of course they are,” he answered, trying to re-start his chainsaw. I said, “I will show you the survey sir, so that you can see what a pie shape is all about.” Well, he got mad because he had his heart set on some quality chainsawing that day, but told me how stupid I was for keeping such a miserable stand of birches and evergreen. Go figure.

One day I came home and the guy’s handyman was cutting our lawn. It was more than just a little ridiculous because it should have been obvious by our survey stakes, if nothing else, that he was mowing on the wrong side. Moving our lawnchairs, aimed at our house, should have tweaked something in the man’s head. When I asked him to stop, he nodded, “Right after I finish cutting the lawn.” I threw a couple of lawn chair’s in his way. When he turned the mower off and got all red-faced with rage, I asked him the same question as the other bloke. “Do you know what pie shape means?” Never had to explain that one again.

A neighbor in our third house, decided to re-direct a sump-pump drain from where it had been, onto a treed section of property, to shoot out instead into the thin backyard. He did this just prior to the start of the winter. By the March melt there was quite a lot of water building up at the fence line that we didn’t know about. One of our boys had dropped a toy on the way into the house, and when I stepped off the deck into the snow to grab it, the water rose up to my knee. It was up to the last concrete block before the woodwork of our house. We could hear the flow of water from the hose adding to the melt water from the snow. We phoned him to help re-direct the water, and talk about engaging a grumpy old fart. He blamed us for everything wrong in his life. Including the misery we were inflicting, getting him away from his recreation, to help save our homestead from floating down to the lake. When we finally let that water go down the driveway, well, it took a good chunk of our driveway with it. I told him to re-direct the sump-pump water away from our house. Several years and floods later, he did move it, and we haven’t had water rising at our back ever since.

Now it builds from the side. Several years ago another neighbor decided to get rid of excess water from the basement, and shoot it down a buried tube to the border between our properties. As soon as we hear the heavy equipment and chainsaws, by habit, we react. I watched with interest as the hose was aimed right at us. The idea, I suppose, was that the small basin in which it was centered, would be enough of a depression in the landscape to keep it running toward a drainage pipe that runs along the roadway. Not wishing to get into a scrap, at least immediately, we opted to take a “wait and see” approach. This fall, while walking the dog, I stepped into a quagmire of soggy grass and soil up to my anklebone. When I studied the source, well, there it was. An underground river was exiting through the water table, down toward the lake, instead of flowing to the roadside drain. Suzanne’s late-season garden was floating. The unstable ground extended for about thirty feet. I don’t know where all this new water was coming from, because for months there hadn’t been much of an issue. I was forced to dig a drainage ditch immediately for fear I was going to watch my lawn slip down the storm drain. From the moment I dug it out to the road, it remained full to overflowing through the winter.

One day we came home from work, and our entire upper driveway....where we used to park, was entirely covered with the remnants of a neighbor’s pine tree. It was a towering son of a gun and I wasn’t unhappy to see it gone. I just would have thought it prudent, our neighbor might have asked first before using our property as a temporary lumber yard.

I was sitting on my deck one day reading, and heard a group of people coming down our sideyard path. I dropped the book, looked out over the railing, and watched the sightseers enjoying the stroll. They were telling their children that this was a neighborhood path they could use instead of walking all the way around the block. They were at least very complimentary about Suzanne’s gardens, as they pointed out the various plants and shrubs we had planted along the winding path. I asked them what I could do for them, and they seemed annoyed by the intrusion on their nature walk. I love when trespassers argue with you. I asked them if they’d like to see our survey. One night a week later, while I was sleeping on a cot on the deck, during a hot spell, I awoke suddenly, staring at a lady who was walking through our garden, apparently looking for the same neighborhood path. We both shrieked, and she went running (which was a mistake) through the precarious pricklies of Suzanne’s garden. There was a lot of crying-out and crashing noises before she navigated that dark forest path.

When a neighbor asked Suzanne, one afternoon, where he should put the new Greek-themed water-fountain he’d just ordered, it was the first time I’d ever heard my wife suggest to an acquaintance, “Up your arse, cause it’s not going in the front yard.....understand?”

I went out this morning and found that someone had driven a rather large truck onto my lawn. This isn’t all that peculiar. We live just past a sharp bend in the road, and if conditions are right, a vehicle travelling too fast will skid on the ice, and spin like a curling stone, out onto our front lawn. Funny thing though, we’re getting desensitized to all the weird stuff directed away. The driver must have had to engage four wheel drive or a tow truck to get out, and we were sitting in the living room listening to Mozart. We’re built on a cement pad so we can hear the kids thwacking a tennis ball on the road but apparently, not a large truck sitting in our front yard.

In the words of that kid in the movie “The Burbs,” I love this neighborhood! And all the hoods in between. Thanks Rimmer for infusing good humor into what my mother used to call, little Teddy’s “worry worts.” Getting mad just shortens your life. With what I drank and smoked, life’s probably short enough as it is! No sense losing any more time being flustered.

2011-02-03T07:28:00.001-08:00

THE STORM HAS GONE - THE SNOW SHOVELLED - THE COLD HAS ARRIVED

NOW I’M WITH CATS-

I have once again returned to the hearthside with frozen whiskers, fingers and toes. The most recent snow storm certainly infilled our lane here at Birch Hollow. It has taken several hours to clear it out, to my wife’s specifications I should note. She has long accused me of being less than ambitious about snow removal. Suzanne likes her paths as wide as I am tall. Even though I’m not very tall, I think it’s excessive. I start off the season meeting this obligation but as the snow volume increases, she’s lucky if the path is a metre wide when all is said and done. I just can’t push it back any further from the walk without having a gas snowblower. Seeing as I’m rather inept with anything but pioneer tools, I know she’ll relent when I tell her I can’t widen the paths any more, unless we get a snowblower. She’ll look out, look at me, look back onto the yard, and reluctantly agree. The path is wide enough. Spring isn’t so far off anyway, I tell her. I know that what she’s thinking, has something to do with the unpleasant potential of me losing an arm or foot in a snow blower. As soon as I bring it up, she must immediately imagine severed limb(s) on the walkway. Next year I’m going to start pitching the idea of a snowblower earlier in the season, before she starts complaining about the width of the lane.

At this moment, I’ve inherited three of our seven cats, on my leg, stomach and shoulder. That would be Wee Angus, Zappa (after Frank Zappa) and Chutney, as related to the preserves Suzanne was making when we needed another name. The other inmates of the feline kind, include Fester, our bathroom cat, Beasley, Buddy and Old Smoky, who is about the same size as the gopher “Phil” of Gobbler’s Knob......and as well, yesterday, didn’t see his shadow when he literally rolled outside. His stomach hits the ground when he walks. We’ve put him on all kinds of fad diets but he cheats like mad each time. One day he felt cheated by the meagre offering in the dish, and actually opened the cupboard door and ripped apart a bag of dry food for sustenance. I swear he smiled at us that day, sitting on a kitchen chair, the fat cat that he is!

According to recent reports on the television, about cat hoarders, I’m starting to worry we have fallen into this here at the Currie homestead. Here’s how they all arrived.

I have been a cat fancier most of my life. My first cat was a cast-off beast that I called “Animal.” When I was editor of The Herald-Gazette, in Bracebridge, a lot of folks used to drop off strays because they believed, as a newspaper, we could place free adoption ads in the paper.....thus a good group of people to handle someone else’s dilemma. Animal was thrown from a moving car in front of our office, just as I was standing in front at the time. The poor little bugger did five or six flips, and a few quick, jerky rolls, before coming to rest against the curb. The kitten sustained only minor injuries and was fixed up, and pampered back to its kittenish lifestyle. I adopted Animal because no one else had the room or disposition for a rambunctious kitten that clawed everything in my apartment including me.

The second cat, Fester I, was found one bitter January night, trying to stay warm on a sewer grate on busy Quebec Street, on the same block as our newspaper office. Well, it was late, and I couldn’t let it freeze. There was no Humane Society shelter at this point in Bracebridge. No one wanted Fester and no one reported it missing. The third cat we called Tommy. When I’d come home from hockey, Suzanne insisted the equipment bag had to stay on the back steps. I agree, it did smell. Tommy didn’t mind the odor, and this is where he spent the cold winter nights. Until we realized he had made our deck a permanent stop. After considerable coaxing, and food, we were eventually able to give Tom a warm place to live that winter. We took them all to the vet, for medical care, and other stuff to avoid more kitten catastrophes. We spent a fortune on cats then, and we’re doubling that now.

Well, Tommy thanked us, one night,.....letting us have a good long pat and cuddle, then asked to go out, and never returned. I saw him one night in an ally up town, and he came to me right away when I called. We had a nice visit but he let me know his home was all-outdoors. He rubbed against me for several minutes, looked up with his beautiful eyes, and turned and ran off again. Contented to be an alley cat. It was the last time I saw that dear little creature. Even though we hadn’t been together all that long, I missed him a lot. For the next year, I’d get up from my chair or even from bed, thinking I’d heard scratching at the door. Which he was famous for during our time together.

Animal was the proverbial fat cat. It had a nasty disposition and an insatiable appetite for the outdoors. It was hit by a car one night, and she too was history. Fester was an outdoor cat plain and simple. She loved to sit on a sunny rock on the embankment overlooking The Bog, and with the back door open, spring to autumn, she’d check in at dinner time, and then go out until about 10 p.m. She’d curl up by the hearth until first light. Fester died at about ten years of age. I held her in my arms for those final few moments. We were all devastated here. No matter how many times I’d say to Suzanne, “it’s just a cat,” we couldn’t stop crying for that old stray cat we’d invited into our home just after we married.

Fester II was an abused cat we adopted quite a number of years ago now, and it had endured an unhappy relationship, as a kitten, with a nasty dog locked in a small work shed. The imprint of those days created many emotional issues for Fester, especially its need for high places to escape its pursuer. Not that anything pursues it but that’s the way it coped originally, and does today. We adopted Old Smoky from a family that had to get rid of him, and we thought it would be good for Fester to have a mate. It worked for awhile but Fester just doesn’t, (as I was told by my teachers) play well with others. By her choice, she dwells in one of our bathrooms, which she has long considered a safe have from her adversaries. We’re all a little eccentric here at Birch Hollow so we accept her differences in stride.

Sitting on the deck one evening, looking out onto our gardens.....and watching the hummingbird feeding there, we heard the familiar cry of a kitten. It’s not something we want to hear necessarily because it usually means some clown has abandoned something unwanted. We had noticed a hawk flitting from tree-top to tree-top, and we suspected it had an evil intent for whatever was calling out. We found Buddy, a tiny, under nourished kitten, on the side of the road. It had only a few minutes of life remaining, as we could see the hawk, just then, watching us from the top of a nearby hydro pole. The cars on our dead-end road travel way to fast, and it wouldn’t have been long before a car would have taken-out what the Hawk hadn’t eaten yet. We put a note up on the community mail box, just in case someone had lost this little orange beastie. Well, that was seven years ago and no one’s called yet. As Buddy’s tail had been compromised while living in the Bog, it developed a nerve disorder that causes violent spasms.....and I’ve been holding her for two of the seizure-like events. We have to keep Buddy isolated in case he was to accidentally injure the other felines. A wonderfully friendly cat that loves to be in your company.

Most recently, Suzanne had been trying to feed a seriously underweight stray we called “Beasley,” that was getting into the recycling bins for food. For months we tried to keep her weight up with milk and both dry and wet foods. As she had been so thin, it took a long time for Beasley to show the pregnancy. So having seen pregnant cats before, we naturally assumed we had some preparation time. To that point, Beasley was scared of us, and would run-off if we came too close. One night, we came home just before midnight, as we all heard the sounds......the fain meows of new life. Beasley had taken sanctuary in our crammed garden shed, and given birth to three kittens in the shelter of an old tipped-on-its-side electric lawnmower. It took a bank of studio lights and an hour of pulling items out, to be in a position to remove the kittens to a safer environs. It was the first time Beasley let us help. She must have known she didn’t have enough body weight or health to provide the kittens with what they needed. She growled once, when Suzanne put her hand close to the nest, but then got up and started rubbing against her legs. Funny thing. It was the first time she had ever come to us voluntarily, and it was as if she was asking for help, to save her babies.

All the Curries here took turns trying to save the bandy legged wee beasties. It was touch and go for several months. They all survived and all are crazy. They’ve made our house their playground that’s for sure. But they’re homegrown here at Birch Hollow, and with overflowing numbers of cats at the local shelter, and not enough adoptions to clear the cages, we decided to take what happened here as a sign.......these little darling had come to us under precarious circumstances, and would have died that same night, if we hadn’t heard that familiar plaintive cry. Odd though. It was the runt of the litter, “Chutney” that got our attention in the first place. It was Chutney we expected would die because it was so small. Well, three years later, Chutney is still the runt of the three but a healthy, over-active little beggar, who shreds my old books, quilts and chair backs. Here she is now purring away on my lap, while her brother Angus sits on the back of the chair, and Zappa has begun swiping at a loose piece of yarn Suzanne left hanging out of her knitting basket.

As a writer, these cats we have been associated, have very much impacted my work over the past 30 years. I couldn’t even imagine a house without these furry critters adding so much life and entertainment to the mix of human inmates, who also make Birch Hollow home. They are family. The old dog, Bosko, also a rescue dog, hated cats before we adopted her. Now they huddle together by this hearth and I’m pretty sure she thinks of herself as one of them.

There is a CD we play regularly here, that sums up our life and times living with cats. It was done by well known American story-teller, Garrison Keillor, and singer Frederica Von Stade, entitled “Songs Of The Cat,”........well known music turned into cat-themed songs. We couldn’t live without it either. It’s about the influences cats have on their owners and how they are truly the masters of the domain when it comes right down to it! When the cats go nuts in unison, we put that CD on at full blast, and watch them come to the door of the livingroom, in a panic, wondering if their humans have lost their marbles. It’s usually enough of a pause, to stop the running back and forth.....at least for awhile. Serenity now!

There’s something so wonderfully literary about sitting here, cats on lap, a mutt laying on my feet, and the sighs of contentment from them and me, that makes a writer want to write! There’s always one inspiration or another, here at Birch Hollow.

Bless these cats and dogs for their ongoing contribution, all these years, at making a house, truly a home.

2011-01-31T06:36:00.001-08:00

COLD WINTER CALM......THE STORM IS COMING

The spiral of warm ghostly steam rises slowly from the tea-cup, and is drawn to the cold glass of my office window. As if a wayward spirit is finally moving toward the light, it is lost in the brightness of the morning. I have only just come in from a short walk down the lane, and my beard is frozen white, like a shrub against the house. It is minus 24 at present but as many days, so far this winter, it will blossom with grand sunshine for the rest of the day. The afternoon temperature will be much warmer but tonight is again expected to return to at least minus 20. It is expected this will be the last bright day for the next week. Groundhog Day is on Wednesday (two days from this writing) and it’s not likely to see its shadow on this February 2nd. A storm will soon begin its cross of the Great Lakes, and by tomorrow at this time, we should be seeing the first tumble of clouds of what some are calling, the storm of the decade. Frankly, we have been told this many times, by weather folks this winter, who seem to relish making any storm-front “breaking news” events. Most we have been warned about this year have fizzled long before hitting Muskoka. This winter has been a splendid mix of sun and flurries, with only five or six similarly cold days as this one has turned out.

Sitting at my desk, I enjoy the transitions of the day. The changes in mood from this bright daylight, to the flurries that hit the window-pane in the glow of lamplight. There is always an eagerness to meet the very next weather system heading our way. I’ve sat in this same place for many spectacular summer storms, autumn gales, January blizzards, and the torrential rains of early April. I’ve watched from here as our thin maples and evergreens are nearly doubled over by the powerful winds, and watched as the lilacs and raspberry canes, in the front garden, are violently intertwined by sustained gusts, and twisting air currents that I fear might lift this house off its blocks;........ and blow it unceremoniously onto some unsuspecting witch (stopped to fix a flat broom), somewhere on the Yellow Brick Road.

To some watchers this would seem dull entertainment none the less, as weather seems only a matter of inconvenience, to our daily mortal work and play. It is something to work around moreso than appreciate and understand. If you watched out from this portal long enough, you’d realize just how important the subtle changes are, when for example, everything outside ceases to move and an eerie silence seems to prevail indoors and out. Awaiting the first drifts of snow, from a dangerous storm-front, my resident crickets suddenly stop chirping. The cats and dog seem pensive and alert to changes about to arrive. Some times the changes out here are minute and hard to detect, certainly for someone who hasn’t spent much time interested in the natural world. There are signs, beyond the stiffness of my joints, that nature is offering a warning, in order to prepare her children for a surge of power brewing within. A stillness will commence prior to the storm, when the bird chatter at the feeder will cease, for awhile, and there’ll be no significant wind,...... and the squirrels and birds in the tree-tops here at Birch Hollow, will disappear, as signs guide them to a more sheltered place to weather the storm.

I will watch as the trees-tops on the western fringe of The Bog, begin to waver in the newly risen wind. In minutes, the quake of wind against the earth, will roar as it mounts the hillside from the lake. It will begin with a wheez through the evergreens, and then boom heavily across the open area, slamming into the vulnerable, leaning birches and venerable pines,..... and I will see, before long, the cull of many branches and weak tops, to be sent smashing into the snowscape. Soon after, the voyeur will see the cascade of snow spiraling through the woodlands, dusting down on the vivid green of the resident cedars, sculpting over the lowland and hitting hard at this humble homestead at Birch Hollow. It will be a profound hour or two of assault against the landscape, and many of my favorite old trees will be toppled. From this window I will see the spirited essence of a Muskoka storm. I will have to head out to shovel the lane, for fear of being snowed-in. It will happen here in a matter of several hours. It can be an amazing transformation, if there is a large quantity of snow associated with the front. Even this winter, there have been snowfalls that have necessitated three clearings, through the day, just to keep the driveway unplugged. It’s expected this snow storm could do the same. From this bright and cheerful calm, to the full engagement of a Muskoka storm, seems a work of fiction.....but it will prove real enough when that first roar of wind sweeps toward our retreat here, adjacent to The Bog.

Tom Thomson was a lover of storms. Those who knew the revered Canadian landscape artist, told stories of his sudden change in demeanor when a severe storm was approaching. It was as if his mood was directly proportional to the stormscape’s intensity. He studied the thick, dark tumble of clouds, as it moved over the lakeland, and then exploded suddenly with thunder and lightning,..... the wind gouging down at the water, to create a cauldron of white froth, where only moments earlier, there had been a prevailing, gentle calm.

His keen awareness of the weather, and the volatility of seasonal storms, were hallmarks of his art throughout his short career, particularly in his important collection of Algonquin studies.

I have the same interest. I look forward to the contrasts of the season, and have always felt liberated by these drastic transitions of earth and atmosphere. Now it is mid-winter, and the watcher expects a major snowstorm will arrive, twenty-four hours from now. And I will be here to witness its arrival. A short story shall recall the event, for posterity, as they have for all the seasons that have etched down, and passed my occupancy, of this cherished, humble cabin in the glorious hinterland of my Muskoka.

2011-01-26T18:01:00.001-08:00

ANY ROOM FOR THE NOVELIST TO EMERGE? I’M SOFTENING ON FICTION

Back in the early 1980's, a writer friend and I, both working for the community press at the time, in Bracebridge, decided to put together a stage-play. Two news hounds thinking about a plan to pursue fiction, is just left of nuts. It took a lot of booze. It was at my peak of imbibing and the more whisky we consumed, the more the idea seemed golden. We might have even written a screen play, or television pilot, had we carried on in our drunken stupor. Heavens knows, we might have co-written a novel. The only reality we needed however, to figure the whole thing out, was a good re-read of what we’d penned during the previous binge. Take out the gratuitous stuff, the ridiculous story-line, and really bad word-smithing, there wasn’t a shred of workable copy to salvage. We gave up when the booze ran out. I don’t know what happened to the rough copy but it should have been burned-up, just in case it had our names attached.

Both of us have remained in the writing enterprise, to varying degrees, ever since, just not as authors of fiction. I’ll admit to having made a few attempts in the past thirty years, beyond what we started to pen from that front table at the local watering hole. Each time, I get about the same number of chapters in, sober as a judge, but can’t seem to find the inspiration to finish the book. I’ve never been very good at reading fiction, and even as an old book seller, by profession, more than 95 percent of my books for sale, are titles of non-fiction. So it’s a belief issue, that fiction is frivolous, although it’s always crossed my mind, that as a writer, it would be okay to be called a “novelist.” I’ve been called better and worse, in a career that began with poetry in the mid-1970's in my latent beatnik phase.

My first published works were poems. At York University I was taught by a number of successful poets. Truthfully, I still write poems, in an old hardcover ledger, I keep by my livingroom chair. I only write in it when everybody’s gone to bed, simply because I don’t want to explain my creative dabbling. Family couldn’t leave well enough alone, and sooner or later, they’d be quoting poetic lines, to counter-point one of my arguments, or follies, or both at once. While it might seem strange to do this, I enjoy creative writing for personal entertainment, not for career enhancement. It’s why I tread so lightly on the subject of writing short stories, or an eventual full-chapter novel. As a career anti-fiction crusader, I look pretty stupid when one or more of my kin find several sample chapters of sample fiction loose on my desk.

I have made mindful attempts to re-invent myself as a creative writer, in common step with the historian, feature writer, blogger, and columnist. So far it hasn’t worked. The other discipline kicks the novelist’s ass repeatedly. It’s not that I’m unable to write fiction but that my own history makes it a difficult conversion. I’d love to start with a clean slate, as a novelist, and live the novelist’s life. If it was that easy, I’d have converted twenty years ago when I left full-time employ of the weekly press, and I was searching for career opportunities. In those two decades I’ve written twice the volume of historical and feature material, as an independent, that I would have for a regular pay cheque working for one master. Independence and freedom from a publisher’s influence, has been the hallmark of my writing career so far. But to think that, as a novelist, I’d have to cater to the editors and publisher of popular books, with market strategies for profit-making, makes me nauseous just thinking about it. I’ve enjoyed writing for all of these years, and hope one day, my boys will appreciate some of my accomplishments......ones in authordom they don’t know about. I’ve spent many years working as a writer; owned by no one, loyal only to my own conscience. Yet as I have long advised my two sons to pursue dreams with passion, and challenge for success, I realize the contradiction is pretty striking. If I was to embrace my own advice, I’d start working on an idea right now, and let everyone here know, a novelist had emerged.....having just now escaped from the historian’s dominion.

I have one of the most beautiful and compelling backdrops, here in the Muskoka hinterland, any writer or artist could ask for........ a perpetually inspirational place to create. I can sit here, in the comfortable digs at Birch Hollow, our modest homestead, and watch out at a most enticing environs, thriving with activity from the bird feeder guests, to the half dozen squirrels and venerable old crows, dwelling in the adjacent woodland. Robert Frost and Washington Irving benefitted from such inspiring vistas.....and while I don’t have the advantage of Irving’s haunted Hudson River Valley, or Frost’s picturesque farmstead, we do share the immersion, and restorative communion with nature. Sometimes non-fiction simply can’t address the enchantment I see in this hinterland, here in South Muskoka. As hard as I try, there are descriptions I compose, that borrow from the obvious qualities and quantities of nature, yet overlap the shadowy expectation of what I think exists and interacts beyond my sight. As Washington Irving understood the botanist’s need to investigate the smallest molecules of a larger life-form, he also appreciated that despite the revelations magnification and dissection would reveal, it could never totally explain the nuances of the enchanted life. He was not deterred from believing in phantoms, wee fairies and their midnight revels, and held considerable regard for lore and legend, as part of enduring, important cultural beliefs and identity. His was in no way, a bid to abandon science for what it could explain, yet as with the heavenly music a harpist plays, it might be supposed, as much, the summonsing of angel-kind to earth. Just because science hadn’t proven the existence of angels, didn’t stop the believer from anticipation and expectation,........ regardless of the scientist’s conclusions otherwise. Irving could believe in the revelations of new science yet still not be thwarted from believing in the great worth of legend to existence..

It is this perpetual badgering I engage upon myself, whenever I get the urge to pen the opening chapters of a novel, or collection of short stories of which I most enjoy. I will get to a mid-zone of work, and the non-fiction interest, will implore the novelist to settle back into wishful thinking and nothing more. Even by this confessional, I have no such personal fortitude, at this moment, to become a novelist all of a sudden by any type of internal revolt, or staged intervention......of novelists I know gathering round me, to cast-out the historian’s bent, for more fertile thoughts and creative enterprise. Still, I’m having more fiction-friendly hiatus periods these days, as I find my column work full to overflowing, and time on my hands to pursue other interests. I think it’s fair to think of it all as a future potential, when I’m satisfied it hasn’t been at the sacrifice of my daily scribblings on-line and for assorted publications. I suppose it’s as much a fear of the unknown, and the expectation, based on early trials, that my creative foray will fail miserably. I’ve always rather worried, that a failure in any writing enterprise, might thrust me into such a funk, that composing anything thereafter would be next to impossible. It’s happened before just not the result of a turn toward fiction.

I will continue to be inspired, sitting here, looking out on such a magnificent scene, as this winter lowland, in the great woodlands of Muskoka. I will make subtle forays in creativity, and dress it up as non-fiction, at least for the immediate future. One day, I think, I will sit down here, early one morning, and experience a sort of grand re-constitution of values......commencing an unfettered, inspired season of creative liberation. Until then, the historian rules this body, and is a taskmaster, let me tell you.