Bracebridge Christmas; Dinner On The Old Chrome Table With The Tacky Yule Log

CHRISTMAS DINNER ON A CHROME TABLE THAT PINCHED MY FINGERS

FUNNY WHAT YOU REMEMBER ABOUT "THE HOLIDAYS"

     WHEN WE LIVED UP AT 129 ALICE STREET, WHICH WAS BETTER KNOWN AS "THE WEBER APARTMENTS," BACK IN THE HALCYON DAYS OF MY CHILDHOOD, CIRCA 1960'S TO MID 1970'S, WE LIVED LIKE THE OTHER RESIDENTS OF THOSE AFFORDABLE UNITS. WE CALLED IT "TRYING TO SURVIVE." MY MOTHER WAS ALWAYS A MINIMALIST, SO IT FIT RIGHT IN WITH US BEING OF MODEST INCOME. FOR CHRISTMAS, WE RELIED ON A BOX OF OLD ORNAMENTS AND TRIMMINGS MERLE HAD BROUGHT WITH US, WHEN WE MOVED FROM BURLINGTON TO BRACEBRIDGE. AS SHE DID ROUTINELY, THE CARDBOARD BOX WITH THE BEST ORNAMENTS WERE TOSSED OUT WHEN WE MOVED. IT BECAME A TRADITION WITH MERLE. IT HAPPENED EVERY TIME THEY MOVED THERE-AFTER. ORNAMENTS THAT WEREN'T BUSTED WHEN THE TREE WOULD TOPPLE OVER BY HAPPENSTANCE, WERE THEN TOSSED OUT THE NEXT TIME WE CHANGED RESIDENCES. WE ACTUALLY BEGAN ACCUMULATING ORNAMENTS AT THE WEBER APARTMENTS, BECAUSE IT WAS ABOUT NINE YEARS BETWEEN MOVES.
     MOST OF OUR ORNAMENTS WERE OF THE TACKY VARIETY, BUT MERLE DIDN'T CARE. WE HAD LITTLE WHITE STUCCO HOUSES WITH RED PLASTIC WINDOWS THAT WERE SUPPOSED TO BE ILLUMINATED BUT NEVER WERE. SHE HAD A TYPICAL DISPLAY OF PLASTIC POINSETTAS, WITH SOME SPARKLING STALKS OF SOMETHING ELSE, FOR THE OLD FLOWER VASE SHE USED ON OUR ROUND COFFEE TABLE IN THE LIVINGROOM. SHE WOULD PUT OUT A SPECIAL CHRISTMAS CLOTH FOR THE VASE TO STAND UPON. MERLE WOULD BUY CHRISTMAS CANDLES BUT NEVER USE THEM YEAR AFTER YEAR. IN FACT, WHEN SHE DIED A FEW YEARS BACK, I FOUND SOME OF THOSE SAME CANDLES I REMEMBERED FROM ALICE STREET. I DON'T KNOW WHY, BUT SHE NEVER BURNED ANY OF THEM. SHE HAD A COMMERCIAL EXAMPLE OF A YULE LOG, MADE OF BIRCH THAT HAD TWO HOLES FOR CANDLES, AND PLASTIC FLOWERS GLUED ONTO THE OUTSIDE. I THINK MERLE PICKED THIS UP, WITH THE NATIVITY SCENE, AT THE BURLINGTON WOOLWORTH STORE ON BRANT STREET IN BURLINGTON. IT WOULD BE PLACED ON THE KITCHEN TABLE WHEN IT WAS EXPANDED FOR THE EXTRA FOOD OF THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
     I LOVED CHRISTMAS DAY, BECAUSE WE GOT TO EXTEND THE CHROME TABLE TO PUT IN THE LEAF MY FATHER KEPT BACK IN THE CLOSET. THE PROBLEM WITH THE TABLE WAS THAT IT REFUSED TO OPEN WIDE ENOUGH TO ACCOMMODATE THE INSERT. SO ED AND I HAD TO TUG ON IT FOR ABOUT A HALF HOUR, AND EVEN THEN, BY THE HALFWAY POINT OF THE MISSION, BOTH OF US HAD CUTS ON OUR HANDS AND PINCH BRUISING. THEN WE'D GET IT TOO WIDE, AND WHEN IT WAS NECESSARY TO PUSH THE TWO ENDS TOGETHER, TO SQUEEZE THE INSERT INTO PLACE, IT WOULD TAKE ALL OUR EFFORT TO GET IT TO MOVE AN INCH, AND THEN, ALL OF A SUDDEN, IT WOULD LET GO WITH GREAT EASE, AND GOD FORBID ONE OF US WOULD HAVE A FINGER IN THE CREVICE. MERLE HAD A SPECIAL CHRISTMAS CLOTH, AND DESPITE THE FACT IT WAS A PLAIN TABLE, WITH VINYL COVERED CHAIRS, THE ADORNMENTS ON THE TABLE MADE IT LOOK LIKE A GREAT KING'S GROANING BOARD. THERE WERE ALWAYS CANDLES ON THE TABLE BUT THE ONES THAT WE LIT, WERE THE PLAIN ONES MERLE HAD GOT ON SALE AT THE FIVE AND DIME STORE. SHE'D ACTUALLY MOVE THE CHRISTMAS ONES OFF THE TABLE WHEN WE WERE JUST ABOUT TO EAT.
     THERE WAS ALWAYS A GREAT GOLDEN BIRD EMERGE FROM THAT TINY APARTMENT OVEN, AND THE TABLE WOULD BE FULL OF THOSE COLORFUL PYREX BOWLS..., RED, GREEN, YELLOW AND BLUE, ALL OF DIFFERENT SIZES. ED WAS VERY ACTIVE IN SPECIAL MEAL PREPARATION, AS HE OFFICIATED FOR MOST OF HIS FINAL YEARS WHEN MERLE WAS LIVING AT HOME. SHE WAS PLACED IN A NURSING HOME FOR THE LAST TWO YEARS. ED WASN'T AS KEEN TO MAKE BIG MEALS, ALTHOUGH WE USED TO HAVE CHRISTMAS AT HIS HOUSE NONE THE LESS. HE HAD LOST A LOT OF HIS ENTHUSIASM FOR THE SEASON, AND WE HAD TO COERCE HIM TO PUT UP THE OLD TREE MERLE LOVED. SON ANDREW WAS ALWAYS ABLE TO CONVINCE HIM TO KEEP UP THE CELEBRATIONS BECAUSE IT WAS HEALTHY AND IMPORTANT TO HIM (ANDREW). ED WOULD DO ANYTHING POSSIBLE TO MAKE HIS GRANDSONS' HAPPY. AND THEY ADORED HELPING HIM WITH ANY PROJECT, INCLUDING THE ANNUAL APARTMENT DECORATING, IN MERLE'S STYLE OF COURSE.
    WE ATE WELL. IN FACT, BACK IN THOSE YEARS, SUNDAY DINNERS AS WELL, PROVIDED DINNERS FOR THE NEXT THREE TO FOUR NIGHTS. SO AT CHRISTMAS, THEY ALWAYS FOUND THE BIGGEST BIRD FOR THE CHEAPEST MONEY, WITH THE IDEA OF HAVING FOUR DINNERS AFTER THE FIRST NIGHT. AND BY GOLLY, THAT'S JUST THE WAY IT WORKED OUT. THE FIRST LEFT-OVER MEAL WAS IDENTICAL TO THE CHRISTMAS DINNER, ONLY ONE DAY OLDER. THE SECOND NIGHT OF LEFT-OVERS MEANT A HOT TURKEY SANDWICH WITH GRAVY; THE THIRD WAS TURKEY SANDWICHES AND TURKEY SOUP, AND THE FOURTH WOULD HAVE BEEN A SORT OF TURKEY-IN-PASTRY TYPE AFFAIR. THE STUFFING WAS THE FIRST TO RUN-OUT AND THEN THE CRANBERRY JELLY, THE KIND YOU SLIDE FROM A CAN. BY THE FINAL NIGHT, THERE WAS JUST THE FLAVOR OF TURKEY WITH A LOT OF FILLER AND OTHER LEFT-OVERS PILED IN.....LIKE BEANS AND TURNIP WHICH I DESPISED AT THAT TIME IN MY LIFE.
     FOR THAT CHRISTMAS MEAL, WE ALWAYS HAD FESTIVE CRACKERS THAT HAD A LITTLE GUNPOWDER IN THEM, FOR A SHARP REPORT WHEN THEY WERE PULLED FROM EITHER END; AND WE HAD TO WEAR THE BIG PAPER HATS INSIDE, AND PUT THE LITTLE TOY FROM INSIDE THE CRACKER, BESIDE OUR PLATE. THEN THERE WAS THE FAMILY PHOTOGRAPH. MOSTLY ME TAKING PICTURES OF MOM AND POP WITH OUR OLD BROWNIE CAMERA....WITH THE HATS HALF FALLEN OVER THEIR EYES, ED WITH A GLASS OF WINE LIFTED FOR THE CAMERA-MAN. THESE WERE TYPICAL PERIOD IMAGES RIGHT DOWN TO THE BOWLS ON THE TABLE.....AND THE TABLE CLOTH WITH THAT UNMISTAKABLE 1960'S FLOURISH OF VIVID COLORS AND LARGE FLOWERS. IT WAS ABOUT AS FAR FROM ELEGANT BUT I WAS IN LOVE WITH THE SHEER NOSTALGIA OF THE HOLIDAY....INCLUDING THE CHRISTMAS RECORDS WE HAD, AND THE SHOWS WE WATCHED ON TELEVISION. LET'S JUST SAY BING CROSBY FACTORED INTO THREE OF THEM; "GOING MY WAY," "THE BELLS OF ST. MARY'S," AND "WHITE CHRISTMAS."
     THE CHRISTMAS TREE WAS ARTIFICIAL BECAUSE MY MOTHER HAD BURNED OUT TWO VACUUMS BY SUCKING UP PINE NEEDLES, THAT CLOGGED THE INTAKE. THE TREE LOOKED GREAT WITH ITS MULTI-COLORED LIGHTS, AND TINSIL, BUT COMPARED TO THE MARTHA STEWART INSPIRED TREES OF TODAY, (EVEN OURS), MERLE AND ED HAD A MINIMALIST TREE IN ALL ITS DIMENSIONS. THERE WOULD HAVE BEEN ABOUT FORTY OR SO DECORATIONS, AND FOUR STRANDS OF LIGHTS, WHICH ONLY TWO WORKED. THE PRE-CHRISTMAS PERIOD WAS SPENT TRYING TO FIND OUT WHICH BULB WAS FAULTY, AND THAT NEARLY DROVE MY DAD NUTS. SO EVENTUALLY WE'D JUST GIVE UP AND ENJOY THE LIGHTS THAT DID WORK. CHRISTMAS DAY WAS OF MODEST PROPORTION AND I SPENT MOST OF THE DAY BREAKING MY TOYS, AND PLAYING ROAD HOCKEY, OFTEN WITH MYSELF; BECAUSE I NEVER REMEMEBER A TIME WHEN I DIDN'T FIND A H0CKEY STICK OR PUCKS BELOW THE TREE. I GOT A COUPLE OF HOCKEY NETS UNDER THERE AS WELL, ON A COUPLE OF CHRISTMAS MORNINGS, BUT THEY WERE ALWAYS POORLY MADE, AND I'D BLOW OUT THE MESH BY THE END OF THE DAY. EVEN A FROZEN TENNIS BALL WOULD BREAK THROUGH THE MESH. IT WAS THE THOUGHT THAT COUNTED. YOU KNOW, I LOVED THOSE CHRISTMASES BECAUSE OF THE SIMPLICITY OF IT ALL. WE ARE FAR MORE ELABORATE AS A FAMILY NOW, THAN I REMEMBER FOR CHILDHOOD. BUT I KNEW WE DIDN'T HAVE MUCH MONEY, SO I DIDN'T ASK FOR EXPENSIVE THINGS FROM SANTA. I ALWAYS MANAGED TO GET A K-TELL RECORD FOR CHRISTMAS, BUT MERLE WAS RELUCTANT TO LET ME USE HER STERO, OUT OF FEAR I WOULD BREAK IT. I'D ASK HER WHY SHE'D BUY ME A RECORD, IF I COULDN'T PLAY IT ON HER STEREO. SHE HAD A REASON, AND IT WAS ALWAYS THE CASE, THAT I WAS TOO HARD ON THINGS. I'D JUST WAIT TILL SHE WENT OUT TO WORK, OR SHOPPING, AND I'D DO MY BEST TO BREAK THE PHONOGRAPH. EVEN THOUGH I DIDN'T, SHE BLAMED ME ANY WAY. AH, IT WAS JUST THE WAY SHE WAS, AND THE WAY I BECAME, OUT OF THAT TRADITION. THEY WERE SIMPLE CHRISTMASES BECAUSE IT'S WHAT WORKED FOR MY PARENTS, AND I DIDN'T HAVE ANY PROBLEM WITH THEIR MODESTY. I KNEW OTHER FAMILIES WERE HAVING LARGER CELEBRATIONS, WITH MORE OF EVERYTHING, IN BIGGER HOMES, BUT THERE WAS SOMETHING WONDERFUL IN THE HONESTY OF A SMALL, HUMBLE, INEXPENSIVE CHRISTMAS, AND I SURVIVED WITH A GOOD ATTITUDE. FOR MERLE AND ED, THE CHRISTMASES WE CELEBRATED, WERE PERFECTLY SUITED TO A FAMILY OF THREE, AND WE MADE THE MOST OF WHAT WE HAD.....AND IF I FELT DISADVANTAGED, IT WAS ONLY BECAUSE I KNEW WHAT THEY REALLY NEEDED, BUT COULDN'T AFFORD....AND THAT WAS A CAR THAT WOULD GO MORE THAN FIVE MILES WITHOUT BREAKING DOWN. IT DID WORK OUT BETTER FOR THEM AS YEARS WENT BY, AND AT THE END, THEY'D DONE MUCH BETTER FOR THEMSELVES FINANCIALLY, AND COULD BUY EXACTLY WHAT THEY NEEDED FOR HOME COMFORTS AND TRANSPORTATION. BUT THEY NEVER ONCE HAD A CHRISTMAS CELEBRATION BIGGER THAN WHAT WAS ABSOLUTELY NEEDED, FOR OUR ENTERTAINMENT AND DINING PLEASURE. THEY STILL TREATED THE TURKEY AS A WEEK-LONG DINING PLEASURE; ITS DOMINANCE, FROM SANDWICHES TO SOUP, AND THERE WAS ALWAYS ENOUGH TO SHARE.
     I DO MISS MERLE AND ED'S CHRISTMAS DINNERS, AND THE WAY THEY COULD BUILD A FESTIVAL OUT OF SO LITTLE.
     I HOPE YOU HAVE HAD A WONDERFUL CHRISTMAS SEASON SO FAR.

Christmas In Bracebridge; A Cat Named Animal, A Hotel Named The Albion

MY CHRISTMAS SOJOURN AT BRACEBRIDGE'S ALBION HOTEL - A WINTER'S EVE WITH AN "ANIMAL"

     TO BEGIN THIS HUMBLE, INTIMATE, TIME-WORN CHRISTMAS STORY, I MUST FIRST CLARIFY THAT I DIDN'T SPEND ALL OF CHRISTMAS EVE DROWNING MY SORROWS IN CHEAP DRAFT BEER, AT THE FORMER ALBION HOTEL....NOW A RUBBLE OF OLD BRICK, DOWN ON BRACEBRIDGE'S "MAIN STREET," OPPOSITE THE FORMER TRAIN STATION. THE "ANIMAL" I REFER TO, IN THE HEADING, WAS ACTUALLY THE NAME OF MY ADOPTED CAT. SOMEONE HAD DRIVEN BY THE HERALD-GAZETTE OFFICE, ON DOMINION STREET, TWO YEARS EARLIER, AND HURLED THE KITTEN ONTO THE TARMAC IN FRONT. IT USED TO HAPPEN THAT PEOPLE WHO DIDN'T WANT THEIR PETS ANY LONGER, FIGURED THAT THE NEWSPAPER OFFICE WAS THE PERFECT PLACE TO ABANDON THEM. THEY FIGURED WE'D PUT AN AD IN THE PAPER, OR WRITE A SAD STORY FOR THE FEATURE PAGES, AND SOMEONE WOULD COME IN TO ADOPT THE PARTICULAR DOG OR CAT. THERE WAS NO HUMANE SOCIETY OPERATION BACK THEN. IT HAPPENED SO FAST, I DIDN'T CATCH THE PLATE NUMBER, AND I WAS SO CONCERNED ABOUT RESCUING THE CAT FROM THE BUSY STREET, BEFORE IT GOT HIT, I COULDN'T EVEN RECALL THE MAKE OF THE CAR, OR ACCURATELY DESCRIBE THE PERSON, WHO SO INHUMANELY TOSSED IT OUT OF THE MOVING VEHICLE. I'VE ALWAYS BEEN A CAT LOVER, SO I WAS ALL OVER THAT LITTLE BEAST, IN THOSE FIRST FEW MOMENTS, TRYING TO DETERMINE WHAT INJURIES IT HAD SUSTAINED IN THE ROLL ALONG THE ASPHALT.
     WELL, THE LITTLE FELLOW WAS A PRETTY BADLY SCRAPED-UP, BUT NOTHING APPEARED BROKEN, AND THERE WAS NO SERIOUS BLEEDING ANYWHERE I COULD DETECT. I TOOK IT TO THE VETERINARIAN, A FRIEND OF MINE, AND THE WORD WAS GOOD. THE KITTEN WOULD SURVIVE. SO OVER THE NEXT FOUR YEARS OR SO, WE WOULD BE PARTNERING IN MY SMALL APARTMENT AT THE MCGIBBON HOUSE; AND THEN FOR A FEW MORE YEARS WITH MY BRIDE SUZANNE, AT TWO RESIDENCES, ONE BEING OUR FIRST PURCHASED HOUSE, AT THE BOTTOM END OF QUEBEC STREET, BELOW THE FORMER BRACEBRIDGE HIGH SCHOOL. THIS IS THE HOUSE, I'M SORRY TO SAY, THAT CONTRIBUTED TO ANIMAL'S DEMISE. IT WAS A BUSY STREET, AND IT'S ONE OF THE REASONS WE MOVED OUR YOUNG FAMILY TO A LESS HEAVILY TRAVELLED NEIGHBORHOOD OF MUSKOKA. THERE WERE A NUMBER OF ACCIDENTS ON THE STREET, THAT OCCURRED AT THE BOTTOM OF THE STEEP AND WINTER-SLIPPERY TANBARK HILL, AND ONE OF THESE ENDED ANIMAL'S SHORT LIFE. SHE GOT OUT OF THE HOUSE, AND BEGAN CHASING A SQUIRREL, PUTTING HIM DIRECTLY IN THE PATH OF AN ONCOMING CAR. HE SURVIVED FOR A FEW MINUTES IN SUZANNE'S ARMS BUT DIED ENROUTE TO THE CLINIC. I WAS WORKING THAT NIGHT AS AN ELECTION SCRUTINEER IN A PROVINCIAL ELECTION, AT THE FORMER BRACEBRIDGE CENTENNIAL CENTRE, JUST A BLOCK AWAY. WE WERE MOVING TO OUR NEW HOUSE, AT GOLDEN BEACH, THE NEXT MORNING, AND IT WOULD HAVE MEANT, HAD ANIMAL SURVIVED, THAT ITS NEW HOME WOULD HAVE BEEN IN A NICE RURAL SETTING WITH SOME ROOM TO ROAM. IT JUST DIDN'T WORK OUT SO WELL....AT LEAST AS WE HAD INTENDED.
     LET'S GO BACK A FEW YEARSS. ANIMAL WAS STILL IN THE KITTENISH PERIOD. AS A RESULT OF ME BEING SINGLE, AND THE FACT THAT MY PARENTS HAD GONE TO FLORIDA FOR THE WINTER, LEAVING ME TO CELEBRATE CHRISTMAS WITH ANIMAL, I GOT SADDLED WITH BEING THE ON-CALL REPORTER FOR THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS. AFTER HAVING SUFFERED THE UNCEREMONIAL HEAVE-HO FROM A LONG TIME GIRLFRIEND, A FEW YEARS BACK, I WAS CONTENT TO BE MISERABLE ON MY OWN....WITH MY STRAY CAT. OTHER THAN WORKING THROUGH THE DOLDRUMS, DAY BY DAY, THERE WAS ALSO A PLAN TO JOIN UP WITH THE FRENCH FOREIGN LEGION, WHERE I COULD LOSE MY IDENTITY. AMIMAL AND I WERE CERTAINLY A COUPLE OF MISFITS, SORT OF LIKE RUDOLPH AND HERBIE THE DENTIST, FROM THAT CLASSIC CHRISTMAS CARTOON I ENJOYED SO MUCH AS A KID.
     ON THAT PARTICULAR CHRISTMAS EVE, I'D BEEN OUT AT A FIRE SCENE FOR MOST OF THE AFTERNOON, AND HAD BUMPED INTO MY OLD RINK RAT PAL, ALISTAIR TAYLOR, WHO HAD BEEN CHRISTMAS SHOPPING. AS IT OFTEN TURNED OUT, WE RETREATED, TO WHAT HERALD-GAZETTE REPORTERS CALLED "THE PRESS CLUB," WHICH WAS AN UNBALANCED CORNER TABLE, WITH A FOLDED COASTER UNDER A LEG, AT THE HISTORIC ALBION HOTEL, OPPOSITE THE FORMER TRAIN STATION. WE ARRIVED AT AROUND THE DINNER HOUR, BUT YOU WOULDN'T DARE EAT THERE....EVEN THE PRETZELS ON THE BAR, WERE IN PROXIMITY TO THE COUGHING OF OLD FARTS WHO COVETED THE LINE OF STOOLS, AS THE PLACE OF HONOR IN THE CAVERNOUS TAVERN. THE FOOD WAS JUST ON THE CHALK BOARD TO SATISFY TERMS OF THE LIQUOR PERMIT....OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT. I IMAGINE THE SANDWICHES WERE GREEN BY THAT POINT OF THE WEEK....MADE FRESH EVERY MONDAY. THERE WERE ONLY A FEW SOULS LEFT FROM THE AFTERNOON AUDIENCE. SO AL AND I HAD A JUG OF DRAFT BROUGHT TO THE TABLE, OF NUMEROUS JUGS THAT EVENING, AND FOR HOURS ON END, WE SAT AND RECOLLECTED OUR RESPECTIVE PASTS....UNBURDENED OURSELVES OF TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS, WHILE GETTING REGULAR REPORTS ON THE WEATHER, WHICH WAS GETTING WORSE BY THE MOMENT. AL AND I WERE SNOWED-IN AT THE ALBION HOTEL IN ALL ITS GLORY. THERE WERE NO STRIPPERS BOOKED THAT NIGHT, AND THE BARTENDER HAD TO WAIT ON TABLES. SO WE DIDN'T GET TO HUG OR MILDLY PINCH THE FEMALE SERVERS, WHO WE LIKED TO TEASE. I WOULDN'T HAVE PINCHED THE BIG GUY WITH THE BEER TRAY FOR LOVE NOR MONEY, AS THEY SAY. AL LIVED A CONSIDERABLE DISTANCE AWAY, AT BALSAM CHUTES, AND EVEN THOUGH I HAD ONLY TWO BLOCKS TO TRAVEL.....IT SEEMED THE BEST THING TO DO.... WAS JUST TO STAY AT THE PRESS CLUB TABLE AND CHAT. IT WAS A LITTLE DISTURBING TO WATCH AS SEVERAL OLDTIMERS, FEEL ASLEEP AT THE TABLES, WITH DRINKS IN HAND, FEELING DESOLATE ABOUT THE LIVES THEY HAD, AND WHAT THEY HAD TO LOOK FORWARD TO WHEN THEY GOT HOME. NO, ON THAT NIGHT, WE WERE TWO OF THE MOST OPTIMISTIC SOULS IN THAT BUILDING. AND PEOPLE AT THE BAR WERE EATING THOSE SNEEZED-OVER PRETZELS....AND ASKING ABOUT THOSE SANDWICHES, WHILE THE BAR-KEEP SHOOK HIS HEAD. AMIDST THE SMOKE AND DIN OF COUGHING AND CONVERSATION, IT HAD ITS RESIDENT HAPPINESS NONE THE LESS. THERE WAS ACCEPTANCE HERE, IN THOSE HOURS, AND THAT'S WHAT COUNTED.
     I WON'T KID YOU. IF YOU HAVE, OR ARE STILL, A FREQUENT TAVERN-GOER, YOU CAN EASILY IMAGINE WHAT THE CROWD OF PATRONS MUST HAVE LOOKED LIKE THAT NIGHT. FOLKS THAT DIDN'T WANT TO GO HOME.....FINDING NO REASON TO HEAD BACK TO A PLACE THAT WAS HOLLOW AND FOSTERED THEIR LONELINESS. AT LEAST IN THE BIG ROOM, THAT SMELLED LIKE STALE BEER AND WET FEET, THEY COULD CLAIM TO BE WITH LIKE-MINDED MATES.....WILLINGLY COMMITTING TO AN IMPOSED EXILE FROM THE REST OF THE WORLD. THIS WAS THEIR PLACE ON EARTH; THE HOME THEY PREFERRED, NO MATTER WHAT IT COST TO SIT AT ONE OF THESE STICKY TABLES, WITH WET RINGS FROM WHERE THE LAST GLASS LIFTED OFF. AL AND I TALKED ABOUT LIFE AND WORK, AND OF COURSE, ABOUT THE RINK RATS, OF WHICH HE AND I WERE FOUNDING MEMBERS. HE WAS WORRIED ABOUT HIS WIFE AT HOME, BUT THE SNOW WAS COMING DOWN HEAVY, AND THE WIND WAS MAKING IT IMPOSSIBLE TO SEE TO THE END OF THE BLOCK.....WHEN AL WOULD LOOK OUT THE DOOR TO THE WORLD BEYOND. IT WOULD SETTLE DOWN SOON, AND AL WAS ABLE TO SECURE A RIDE HOME WITH A NEIGHBOR, WHO HAPPENED TO STILL BE IN TOWN.....STRANDED BY THE SAME BLIZZARD. I SWALLOWED THE LAST FEW DROPS OF WARM BEER, BUTTONED UP MY COAT, TOSSING MY SCARF AROUND MY NECK, MITTS AND TOQUE APPLIED, AND WE BOTH HEADED TO THE DOOR. I LOOKED AROUND AT THE REST OF THE CLIENTELE, THAT WOULD LIKELY BE HERE UNTIL AFTER LAST CALL, WONDERING IF I'D BE BACK HERE NEXT CHRISTMAS EVE TO JOIN THIS LONELY HEARTS CLUB. AL CALLED ME LATER THAT NIGHT, JUST TO LET ME KNOW HE HAD ARRIVED SAFELY HOME, DESPITE A HARROWING MOTOR TRIP.
     WHEN I HAD ARRIVED IN MY ONE BEDROOM APARTMENT, AT THE FORMER MCGIBBON HOUSE, THAT OVERLOOKED THE BANDSHELL OF MEMORIAL PARK, I FOUND MY CAT "ANIMAL" SITTING ON THE ARM OF THE SOFA, AWAITING SOME COMPANY. I ASSUMED HE WAS LOOKING FOR HIS DINNER, WHICH WAS LONG OVERDUE. MY FAULT. I HAD NO BUSINESS OWNING A CAT IN THE FIRST PLACE. BUT HE WAS A LOYAL SORT OF BEAST, AND HE FORGAVE ALL OF MY TRESPASSES, BY JUMPING UP ON MY KNEE, AND PURRING BOTH OF US TO SLEEP. I WOKE UP BEFORE MIDNIGHT, WITH MY NECK STIFF FROM THE WAY I WAS SLUMBERING IN THE CHAIR, AND ANIMAL WAS STILL SNORING ON MY LAP. I LOOKED UP AT THE TWINKLING CHRISTMAS LIGHTS ON THE ARTIFICIAL TREE, AND I COULDN'T HELP BUT NOTICE HOW BEAUTIFUL IT LOOKED, OUT OVER THE TINY PARK, ALL FRESHLY ADORNED WITH THAT EVENING'S SNOW. I DON'T GET MISTY-EYED OFTEN, AND THIS WAS ONE OF THOSE OCCASIONS. NOT BECAUSE I WAS LONELY, OR FELT ABANDONED, WITHOUT ANY FAMILY TO VISIT FOR CHRISTMAS.....BUT BECAUSE I WAS WITH A WONDERFUL FRIEND THAT I HAD REALLY ONLY KNOWN, TO THAT POINT, AS ANOTHER MOUTH TO FEED. I SAT THERE FOR A LONG TIME, PATTING THE LITTLE FELLOW, AND I SOON CAME BACK AROUND, AFTER TEMPORARY DISDAIN, TO THE PLEASANT REALITY, THAT CHRISTMAS IS A FORGIVING TIME.... OF GOODWILL AND KINSHIP; OF THIS, I COULDN'T ASK FOR MORE THAN THE CREATURE COMFORTS OF MY SMALL LITTLE HOME, AND FURRY COMPANION, THAT ASKED FOR NO MORE THAN A FEW CANS OF FOOD EACH DAY, SOME WATER, AND A GENTLE OWNER WHO WOULD BUDGET A FEW MOMENTS EACH DAY.....TO CURL UP TOGETHER IN A CHAIR, SITUATED SUCH, AS TO AFFORD A NICE VIEW UPON THE REAL BUSTLING WORLD, SO SILENT THEN, BEYOND THE PURRING.
     FOR ALL THAT IT DIDN'T HAVE OF CHARM AND ELEGANCE, I HAD ACTUALLY ENJOYED THE COMPANY OF BAR PATRONS THAT NIGHT, IN THEIR OWN PURSUIT OF CONTENTMENT, AND MY ENJOYABLE CHAT WITH AN OLD FRIEND AT THE PRESS TABLE IN A LOW-LIT CORNER OF THE FORMER ALBION HOTEL. WHEN I DRIVE BY IT, ON MY TRAVELS TO BRACEBRIDGE, I'M PLEASANTLY REMINDED OF THAT CHRISTMAS EVE, OF LONG AGO, WHEN I FOUND SOLACE WITH GOOD COMPANY....IN THE MIDST OF A WINTER STORM. I CRIED FOR A LONG TIME, THE NIGHT SUZANNE HAD TO TELL ME ABOUT "ANIMAL'S" TRAFFIC MISADVENTURE, OUT FRONT OF OUR HOME. I WAS HEARTSICK FOR A WEEK AFTER, EVEN WHILE TRYING TO RE-ESTABLISH OUR FAMILY IN THE HOUSE AT GOLDEN BEACH. I MUST HAVE MADE TEN OR MORE SLOW TRIPS PAST THE OLD HOUSE, DURING THAT NEXT WEEK, TRYING TO RECONCILE HOW IT HAD HAPPENED AS GOD'S PLAN, BEING A MOTOR VEHICLE AND ALL....COMPOUNDED BY OUR HUMAN ERROR; AND TO ADJUST TO THE NEW REALITY, THAT THE TABBY WAS NO LONGER. YOU KNOW SOMETHING....WHAT A TREAT IT WOULD BE, ON A NIGHT LIKE THIS....A NEW AGE CHRISTMAS EVE, TO FEEL THE LIGHT, WARM WEIGHT, OF THAT LOVING LITTLE CREATURE, IN SPIRIT, JUMP BACK ONTO MY LAP....FOR OLD TIMES SAKE. HE KEPT ME FROM BEING LONELY ON THOSE LONG WINTER NIGHTS....AT A TIME WHEN I WASN'T AT ALL SURE WHERE I WOULD WIND-UP MYSELF IN GOD'S DETERMINATION. I HOPE, AS A MATTER OF CONSIDERABLE FAITH, THAT GOD'S FOUND HIM A NICE PLACE TO ROAM UP THERE IN THE GREAT BEYOND.
     SUZANNE, ANDREW AND I, HAVE SUBTLE AND MODEST MEMORIALS SET UP TO ALL OUR FORMER PETS, REPRESENTING FORMER DOGS AND CATS; BEING TOMMY, FESTER THE FIRST, AND FESTER THE SECOND, SNOWBALL, AND SMOKY (THE CATS); ALF AND KRAMER OUR CANINE COMPANIONS OF ONCE. OUR CATS TODAY ARE ZAPPA, BEASLEY, CHUTNEY AND BUDDY, ALL STRAYS FOUND DUMPED IN THE BOG.
     PLEASE CONSIDER GIVING A DONATION TO THE ONTARIO SOCIETY FOR THE PREVENTION OF CRUELTY TO ANIMALS, IN BRACEBRIDGE, OR IN YOUR COMMUNITY, TO HELP FEED AND HOUSE ALL THE STRAY AND UNWANTED ANIMALS IN OUR REGION.....AND IF YOU HAVE PLACE IN YOUR FINE HOME FOR A PET LIKE "ANIMAL" THE CAT, PLEASE CONTACT THE SHELTER FOR INFORMATION ON ADOPTIONS
     MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY NEW YEARS TO ONE AND ALL. HAVE A SAFE HOLIDAY.





     HAVE A MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR.....AND BE KIND TO OUR FURRY FRIENDS.  

CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBRIDGE; AT THE OLD HERALD-GAZETTE BUILDING, WHERE WE DRANK BARBECUE SAUCE TO BE FESTIVE

THE BRACEBRIDGE I USED TO KNOW

     THE OTHER COLD AND SNOWY MORNING, I HAD TO WAIT FOR SON ANDREW, WHO WAS SHOPPING FOR GUITAR EQUIPMENT, AT BRACEBRIDGE'S "PRECISION MUSIC," ON MANITOBA STREET. I DO THIS A LOT. I SERVE AS ANDREW AND ROBERT'S "ROADIE," AND MUCH OF THIS TIME IS SPENT, IN SIMILAR CIRCUMSTANCE, EITHER FREEZING IN THE CAR, OR BEING ROASTED ALIVE. I'M A GOOD AND RELIABLE DRIVER. I'M JUST NOT PARTICULARY PATIENT. SO I ARM MYSELVES WITH BOOKS AND NEWSPAPERS FOR A HOLDING-PATTERN THAT COULD LAST TWO HOURS IF THE SHOP IS BUSY. SOMETIMES I HAVE TO ABANDON MY GOOD PARKING SPOT, TO FIND A PLACE TO GO TO THE WASHROOM. I REMIND THE BOYS ABOUT THIS IN ADVANCE, BUT INEVITABLY THEY FORGET OLD POP IN THE CAR DOWN THE ROAD. I WOULD NEVER HAVE DONE THIS TO MY DAD, BECAUSE IT WOULD HAVE BEEN A LONG WALK HOME WITH A HEAVY LOAD. HE DIDN'T HAVE PATIENCE EITHER. I GUESS I HAVE A WEE BIT MORE THAN HE DID, BECAUSE I'VE NEVER LEFT EITHER ONE BEHIND, AFTER TEN YEARS OF DOING THIS BUSINESS "WAITING" THING.
    ON THIS OCCASION, I PARKED IN FRONT OF THE OLD TOWN HALL, ON DOMINION STREET, RIGHT BESIDE THE ICONIC TWO STORY STUCCO BUILDING, WHICH, IN MY DAY, WAS KNOWN AS THE HERALD-GAZETTE OFFICE.....LOCATED AT NUMBER 27. AS WE WERE RUSHED THAT MORNING, COMING FROM GRAVENHURST, I FORGOT TO BRING ALONG MY READING MATERIAL. ON TOP OF THAT, IN TWO OF OUR FAVORITE SECOND HAND SHOPS, I COULDN'T FIND ANYTHING THERE EITHER, SO I HAD TO CONTENT MYSELF, DAYDREAMING ABOUT MY DAYS WORKING IN THAT BUILDING AS EDITOR OF THE NEWSPAPER.....JUST TO PASS THE TIME. I'M GOOD AT THIS, AND PUTTING MYSELF TO SLEEP. SEEING AS I DIDN'T WANT TO FREEZE TO DEATH, I KEPT MYSELF AWAKE BY REMEMBERING SOME OF THE MEMORABLE MOMENTS, IN AND AROUND THIS FAMILIAR BUILDING, ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MANITOBA STREET BLOCK. I HAVE SOME PRETTY CLEAR RECOLLECTIONS, BUT IT'S STILL CLOUDED SOMEWHAT, BY THE FACT, AS A MATTER OF SHEER NOSTALGIA, I FEEL AS IF I SHOULD STILL BE WORKING THERE, AND THE HERALD-GAZETTE SHOULD STILL BE PUBLISHING THEIR WEEKLY ISSUES.
     AT AROUND CHRISTMAS, WORKING IN THAT BUILDING WAS A LOT OF FUN. THE NEWS STAFF USED TO BRING IN A FLASK OR TWO OF RYE, OR RUM, DEPENDING ON THE MOOD, AND AFTER THE CHRISTMAS ISSUE HIT THE STREET, OUR COFFEE AND EGG NOG BECAME A LITTLE STRONGER, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. IT WASN'T CONDONED, AS A GOOD BUSINES PRACTICE, BUT WE WEREN'T THE ONLY ONES SPIKING THE COFFEE EITHER. SOME OF THESE PEOPLE WERE THE ADVERTISERS WHO KEPT OUR ISSUES FREE-FLOWING INTO THOSE MAINSTREET NEWS BOXES. WE'D GET BOTTLES FROM FRIENDS AND BUSINESSES, THAT WE HAD DONE STORIES ON, OVER THE YEAR, AND SOMETIMES, FROM PEOPLE WHO HAD FACTORED INTO SOME OF OUR NEWS COPY. WE'D GET GIFT BASKETS AND FOOD TRAYS, AND A LOT OF PLEASANT VISITS FROM OLD CRONIES OF THE INDUSTRY, LIKE COLUMNIST HUGH CLAIRMONT AND PHOTOGRAPHER ALDYN CLARK; AND FORMER STAFFERS, WHO ALSO LIKED THE CHRISTMAS AURA OF THE OLD NEWSROOM....AND THE REAR OF THE BUILDING, WHERE WE HAD OUR PRINTING PRESSES, USED BY MUSKOKA GRAPHICS. IT WOULD BE A "HUMMING PLACE" IN THOSE DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS, AS FOLKS CAME TO VISIT, AND STAFF TRIED, POINTLESSLY, TO TIDY UP LOOSE ENDS.....AND FINISH PRINTING JOBS BEFORE THE HOLIDAYS.
     I REMEMBER, ABOUT A WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS, A SALES REPRESENTATIVE FOR A NEW BARBECUE SAUCE, CAME INTO THE UPSTAIR'S NEWSROOM, DROPPED A PRESS RELEASE ON MY DESK, AND A CASE WITH TWENTY-FOUR BOTTLES INSIDE. GADS, CONSIDERING WE WERE STARVING ARTISTS, LIVING PAY CHECK TO BAR BILL, WE JUMPED ON TOP OF THAT BOX OF SAUCE LIKE WOLVES ON A CARCASS. BRANT SCOTT AND I WERE DRINKING THE STUFF, AND POURING IT ON ANY FOOD ITEM THAT SEEMED APPROPRIATE EXCEPT GLAZED DONUTS. I WAS LADLING IT ONTO POTATO CHIPS AND PRETZELS. IT WAS GOOD. WE EVEN TRIED IT WITH A LITTLE WHISKY BUT THAT WAS CRAZY. OR NOT. WE HAD SAUCE STAINS ALL OVER US, DURING THAT COUNTDOWN TO CHRISTMAS VACATION.
     IT WAS AN INTERESTING PLACE TO BE AT CHRISTMAS TIME, AND IT WAS VERY MUCH THE CASE THE GENERATIONS COLLIDED. THE OLD GANG AND THE NEW, INTERACTING OVER A GLASS OF EGGNOG OR MULLED CIDER WITH A LITTLE KICK. WE TALKED ABOUT CURRENT AFFAIRS AND OLD AFFAIRS, AND IT JUST SEEMED SO DARN HISTORIC. AUCTIONEER LES RUTLEDGE MIGHT DROP IN TO ARGUE WITH ACCOUNTING, AND TALK ANTIQUES WITH ME, AND I MIGHT WANDER DOWN TO THE BACK, AND SHOOT THE BREEZE WITH JIMMY WRIGHT AND HARRY RANGER WORKING THE PRESSES; OR MEETING UP WITH SOME OF OUR COUNTRY CORRESPONDENTS, WHO WOULD COME IN WITH THEIR NEW YEAR'S EDITION COPY......WHICH HONESTLY, I DIDN'T WANT TO EDIT WITH ALL THIS EGG NOG IN ME. VI HUGGARD WOULD GIVE ME A HARDY HANDSHAKE, AND SLAP ME ON THE BACK, TO LET ME KNOW I WAS GOING TO EDIT HER COLUMN MORE GENTLY IN THE NEW YEAR. WE WOULD GET VISITS FROM TOWN COUNCILLORS,  POSSIBLY MPP FRANK MILLER, BRINGING US CHRISTMAS GREETINGS IN PERSON. MAYBE GAR LEWIS , THE CAMERAMAN FROM CKCO TELEVISION, WHO WE WORKED SIDE BY SIDE THROUGH THE YEAR; EVEN SOME OF THE COMPETITION MIGHT WHIP IN, PRETENDING TO TAKE OUT AN ADVERTISEMENT,  OR ANSWER A JOB APPLICATION.....CRONIES LIKE MIKE GAVIN AND MIKE ARCHER, WHO STILL OWE ME FOR THE CHRISTMAS BAR TAB AT THE HOLIDAY HOUSE.
     SITTING IN THE CAR, FOR THAT HOUR PLUS, IN THE FREEZING COLD, GOT ME THINKING ABOUT WHAT THIS HISTORY AND NOSTALGIA THING IS ALL ABOUT. I MEAN, WHAT GOOD IS IT TO HAVE THESE STRONG FEELINGS, ABOUT HOW GOOD IT WAS IN THOSE DAYS....ESPECIALLY WHEN ALL THE THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE WHO PASS THIS ICONIC LOCATION, EVERY WEEK OF EVERY YEAR SINCE IT WAS CLOSED AS A NEWSPAPER OFFICE, DON'T HAVE A THIN SLIVER OF INTEREST IN WHAT I HAVE JUST WRITTEN ABOUT. PERSONAL MEMORIES. NOTHING WORTH NOTING....OR, WORTH REPEATING. YET I CAN'T BELIEVE,  OR ADMIT TO MYSELF, BLUNTLY AND HONESTLY, THAT THESE MEMORIES SHOULD REMAIN INTIMATE AND UNKNOWN EXCEPT TO THOSE WHO WERE DIRECTLY INVOLVED IN THE SCENARIOS; OF WHICH I FIND SO MUCH PLEASURE RE-TELLING.  THEN ALL OF A SUDDEN, THERE WILL COME AN EMAIL, FROM SOMEONE WHO WAS PART OF THAT SCENE, OR FROM OTHERS I WRITE ABOUT, WHO GOT A KICK OUT OF SOME REKINDLING I'D BEEN HAVING FUN WITH. JUST WHEN I THINK IT'S TIME TO NEVER AGAIN, OFFER ANY REMINISCENCE ABOUT THOSE EARLIER DAYS....THAT FEW CARE ABOUT....SOME CHARACTER I KNEW BACK THEN, WILL SEND ME A PICTURE, SHOWING ME WEARING A RINK RAT SWEATER, WITH SOME GUY PUNCHING ME IN THE FACE, OR BEATING ME WITH MY OWN HELMET, AND I'LL SUDDENLY REBOOT, AND THINK QUIETLY TO MYSELF....BY GOLLY, WE SURE HAD A LOT OF FUN BACK THEN. I WISH I COULD SEE THAT OLD GANG OF OURS JUST ONE MORE TIME. DAMN THING IS, SO MANY OF THEM NOW ARE DECEASED. THAT'S WHY I TRY TO KEEP THEIR NAMES OUT THERE, BECAUSE DAMN IT, I THOUGHT THEY WERE IMPORTANT. I KNEW THEY WERE IMPORTANT. I MAKE IT MY TASK TO PROVE IT. THAT ORDINARY PEOPLE AT ORDINARY JOBS, LIVING ORDINARY, LIVES CAN BE, VERY EXCEPTIONAL AND EXTRAORDINARY.....BY THE SAME TOKEN. THERE'S A LOT MORE TO BEING ORDINARY THAN A ONE WORD DESCRIPTION.
         I ENJOYED MY YEARS AS EDITOR OF THE HERALD-GAZETTE, AND IT AFFORDED ME SO MANY GREAT OPPORTUNITIES, WELL BEYOND THE JOB DESCRIPTION. WHEN THE PUBLISHER LAUGHED AT ME ONCE, WHEN I TOLD HIM I DIDN'T TAKE THE JOB OF EDITOR, JUST FOR THE BIG BUCKS, IT REMAINED WITH ME, TO PROVE ONE DAY, THAT I WAS TRUTHFUL TO HIM;  DESPITE HIS DISAGREEMENT. I HAVE BEEN WRITING FOR MANY YEARS WITHOUT EVER SEEING ONE DIME OF PROFIT. I JUST ENJOY THE FREEDOM OF WRITING, OUT OF INTEREST AND RESPECT FOR TIMES PAST, AND PEOPLE KNOWN. I WOULD HAVE VOLUNTEERED TO BE EDITOR OF THE HERALD-GAZETTE, BECAUSE OF THE WAY IT ALLOWED ME TO SINK INTO THE DEEP VEINS OF MEDIA LIFE AND TIMES. I GOT THE OPPORTUNITY TO APPRENTICE AS AN HISTORIAN WITH MUSKOKA BEST KNOWN WRITER, ROBERT J. BOYER, AND I GOT TO WORK WITH TALENTED WRITERS, LIKE BILL KELLY, BRANT SCOTT, JUDITH BROCKELHURST, AND COLLEAGUES LIKE LOU SPECHT AND BILL COLE; AND BE TUTORED BY PHOTOGRAPHERS LIKE TIM DUVERNET AND JOHN BLACK, WHO I CONSIDERED TWO OF THE FINEST IN THE BUSINESS.
     ALL TOLD, IT'S JUST AN OLD BUILDING FOR MOST WHO PASS THIS WAY, OR WHO STILL WORK WITHIN ITS STUCCO WALLS. BUT I LOVED THAT PLACE....AND I'M SURE MY GHOST STILL VISITS THOSE FAMILIAR PLACES THROUGHOUT THE BUILDING, LOOKING FOR KINDRED SPIRITS.
     MERRY CHRISTMAS YOU OLD HOMETOWN.

Bracebridge History, A Story About A Bunch of Customers and An Antique Shop

BIRCH HOLLOW ANTIQUES WAS A HAVEN FOR THE WEEKLY MEETINGS OF THE "LIARS CLUB."

I BORROWED THIS NAME FROM PAUL RIMSTEAD'S BOOK, "COCKTAILS AND JOCKSTRAPS"

     On Christmas Eve as I was closing up our Manitoba Street Antique Shop, I would pause before extinguishing the last light, and offer it and the big old room a hearty thank you for helping us make enough money for a nice Christmas. I had some great moments in that store with some wonderful folks we Curries will never forget. This story is for them and that rustic little shop on upper Manitoba Street.

     MY SON ROBERT, ASKED ME A COUPLE OF YEARS AGO, WHAT IT WAS LIKE AT OUR FORMER ANTIQUE SHOP, WHICH WAS LOCATED IN THE UNFINISHED BASEMENT OF A MANITOBA STREET BUILDING, IN CENTRAL BRACEBRIDGE. I USED TO LOOK AFTER HIM AT THE STORE, IN THE YEARS BEFORE HE WAS ATTENDING SCHOOL FULL TIME. FOR AWHILE, I EVEN HAD OUR OTHER SON ANDREW IN THE SHOP FOR HALF THE DAY, WHEN HE WENT TO KINDERGARTEN. IT WAS LIKE HELL ON EARTH TO BE HONEST. WE HAD NO CHOICE IN THE MATTER. SHORTLY AFTER WE SIGNED THE LEASE AGREEMENT, OUR FLIGHTY PARTNERS DECIDED THEY DIDN'T WANT TO BE IN THE ANTIQUE BUSINESS ANY MORE, SO IN ORDER TO MAKE UP FOR THE STAFFING SHORTFALL, I HAD TO WORK FIVE DAYS A WEEK, AND SOMETIMES SIX IF SUZANNE HAD OTHER THINGS TO DO ON SATURDAYS.

    SO WHEN ROBERT ASKED ME WHAT I REMEMBERED OF THE STORE EXPERIENCE, BACK IN THE EARLY 1990'S, I MADE A GROAN, WINCED A LITTLE, HAD A WILD LOOK IN MY EYES, AND ANSWERED, "IT WAS GREAT……WHEN YOU AND ANDREW WENT TO SCHOOL;" MEANING THINGS GOT BETTER FOR THE WHIPPED ANTIQUE SHOP CLERK, WHEN HE DIDN'T HAVE TO CHASE KIDS THROUGH THE AISLES OF GLASS AND POTTERY. A YEAR AGO, ON HIS URGING, BASED ON THE FACT HE WAS PRETTY YOUNG AT THE TIME WE HAD THE SHOP, AND HAS FORGOTTEN SOME OF THE EVENTS THAT WENT ON THERE, I STARTED WRITING SOME TELL-ALL BLOGS LAST JANUARY AND FEBRUARY; AND WE ALL GOT QUITE A LAUGH AT SOME OF THE GENERAL MISADVENTURES THAT OCCURRED FROM 1990 TO ABOUT 1995 OR SO. WE CLOSED THE SHOP FOR A NUMBER OF REASONS, THAT HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH FINANCIAL SUCCESS, BECAUSE IN FACT, WE HAD MANAGED TO SURVIVE A HUGE RECESSION, AND REAL ESTATE CRASH, WITH STILL A FEW COINS TO JINGLE IN OUR RESPECTIVE TROUSERS. I WAS OFFERED A POSITION AS PUBLIC RELATIONS DIRECTOR WITH THE CROZIER FOUNDATION, CREATED BY FORMER DETROIT RED WING GOALIE, ROGER CROZIER, (A NATIVE OF BRACEBRIDGE), AND SUZANNE WAS GIVEN AN OPPORTUNITY TO TRANSFER FROM BRACEBRIDGE HIGH SCHOOL TO GRAVENHURST, WHICH IS WHERE WE LIVE. SHE IS A TEACHER LIBRARIAN AND WE WON'T GET INTO THAT WORK TO RULE THING, GOING ON HERE IN ONTARIO, WITH THE CURRENT DISPUTE BETWEEN TEACHERS AND THE PROVINCE.

     ROB WAS MOST INTERESTED IN HAVING SOME OF MY IMPRESSIONS OF THAT TIME, AND THE BUSINESS CLIMATE IN BRACEBRIDGE FOR ANTIQUES AND COLLECTIBLES. HE'S PARTICULARLY INTRIGUED BECAUSE HE AND HIS BROTHER ARE NOW IN THE 7TH YEAR OF THEIR OWN VINTAGE MUSIC BUSINESS, HERE IN GRAVENHURST; AND WE HAVE JOINED THEM THIS PAST YEAR, TO OPEN UP TWO ROOMS OF ANTIQUES AT THE REAR OF THE BUILDING. WE WORK UNDER ROBERT AND ANDREW NOW, AS ONCE MY WIFE RETIRES FROM TEACHING THIS JUNE, WE WANT TO SPEND A LOT MORE TIME TRAVELLING AND PICKING……INSTEAD OF JUST HANGING OUT BEHIND A COUNTER. OF COURSE, LAST YEAR, IT GOT SO BUSY WE COULDN'T LEAVE THE BOYS TO HANDLE THEIR SHOP AND THE EXTENSION AS WELL.

    BUT GETTING BACK TO THE QUESTION ROBERT HAD ASKED ME, I IMMEDIATELY THOUGHT ABOUT PAUL RIMSTEAD'S COLUMN, WRITTEN IN MEXICO IN THE EARLY 1970'S, AS HE WAS PURSUING A NEWSPAPER HIATUS, TO TRY HIS HAND AT CREATIVE WRITING……AS WELL AS DOING REGULAR COLUMNS FOR THE TORONTO SUN. HE WANTED TO SEE IF HE HAD THE SAME STUFF AS ALL THE GREAT NOVELISTS, WHO FOUND THEIR INSPIRATION IN EXOTIC, TROPICAL LANDS. HIS CHOICE WAS MEXICO. THE REASON ROBERT'S QUESTION STRUCK A CHORD, IS THAT I HAD BEEN THINKING, OVER CHRISTMAS THAT YEAR, ABOUT THE INTERESTING GATHERINGS WE USED TO HAVE AT THE SALES DESK IN OUR LITTLE ANTIQUE SHOP. I DIDN'T MAKE MUCH MONEY OFF THESE WEEKLY GUESTS, BUT WHAT FRIENDSHIPS WE HAD……AND WHAT AMAZING DISCUSSIONS WE HAD ABOUT EVERYTHING ON EARTH, IN HISTORY, THE FUTURE, AND A LOT OF OTHER WORLDLY STUFF TOO. WHEN RIMSTEAD ARRIVED IN MEXICO WITH HIS WIFE AND DAUGHTER, EAGER TO TROMP DOWN HIS NEIGHBORHOOD, TO MAKE IT MORE COMFORTABLE, LIKE A DOG CIRCLING ON A BLANKET, HE FOUND A BAR…..AND IN THAT BAR, HE FOUND SOME MATES. IT WASN'T LONG BEFORE THEY WERE HIS BEST FRIENDS. THAT BY THE WAY, WAS THE RIMSTEAD MAGIC. HE COULD MAKE FRIENDS FAST WHO WOULD BE HIS BUDDIES TO THE END. THE STORY HE WROTE ABOUT THIS, WAS THE WAY I THOUGHT ABOUT MY GOOD FRIENDS AND ASSOCIATES, WHO ARRIVED AT MY COUNTER WITH COFFEES AND BOWLS OF SOUP TO SHARE,……WINTER COATS AND GLOVES TO GIVE MY KIDS (THAT HAD BELONGED TO THEIR YOUNGSTERS)…..AND JUST ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE ASSOCIATES MIGHT FEEL COMFORTABLE SHARING WITHIN THE GROUP. WHILE CLOSING THE SHOP WAS DIFFICULT, EMOTIONALLY, IT WAS NOTHING COMPARED TO HAVING TO SAY GOODBYE TO THESE WONDERFUL HANGERS-ON, WHO I SO ENJOYED, WHEN THEY BOUNCED DOWN THOSE STAIRS, YELLING AT ME BEFORE THEY HIT THE BOTTOM STEP. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING CURRIE? WHAT HAVE YOU SOLD TODAY?" IN THE WINTER, THE ANSWER WAS PRETTY MUCH THE SAME FROM DAY TO DAY. ""NOT A BLOODY THING……SO PLEASE MAKE MY DAY……BUY SOMETHING!" "I'M BROKE…..HAVE A COFFEE," MY SHOP GUEST WOULD CHORTLE, WITH VIBRANT HONESTY, DUSTING OFF THE SNOW SO THAT IT GOT ALL OVER MY BOOKS ON THE COUNTER.

"THANKS FOR RUINING MY BOOKS," I'D CHASTISE, WHILE BRUSHING OFF THE WATER DROPLETS. "YOU'RE SUCH A COMPLAINER. DO YOU WANT SOME CHEESE TO GO WITH THAT WHINE?" WELL YOU GET THE IDEA.

     SOME OF MY REGULARS INCLUDED BILL PORTER, TOM MACFARLANE, HARRY RANGER, ASGAR THRANE, JACK KIERNAN, DICK IVEY, KEVIN PEAKE, AND AUDREY JUDD……OF THE WELL KNOWN MUSKOKA FAMILY WHO OPERATED JUDDHAVEN RESORT, ON LAKE ROSSEAU. THERE WERE MORE CUSTOMERS AND ANTIQUE COLLEAGUES WHO JOINED FROM TIME TO TIME, LIKE AUCTIONEER ART CAMPBELL, MIKE BEASLEY, WENDY SMID, RICK KRIST, SHARON AND BRIAN MILNE. I DON'T KNOW WHETHER THEY ENJOYED MY COMPANY. I LOOKED FORWARD TO THEIR VISITS. BUT I'LL TELL YOU ONE THING, WE TRIED TO SOLVE ALL THE PROBLEMS OF THE WORLD, BUT SETTLED INSTEAD FOR SOUND-GOOD RECREATIONAL DEBATING INSTEAD. WE'D GET SO EMBROILED IN ANTIQUE TALKS, THAT I'D FORGET ABOUT PICKING UP THE LADS FROM BRACEBRIDGE PUBLIC SCHOOL, ON THE NEXT BLOCK. I USED TO TRUST THESE FOLKS WITH THE STORE ROUTINELY, AND SOMETIMES BRIAN MILNE WOULD SUBSTITUTE, AND HEAD OVER TO THE SCHOOL AS AN ALTERNATE DAD. YOU KNOW, I'VE THOUGHT ABOUT THIS ALOT…..BUT I DON'T THINK I THANKED THESE FOLKS FOR MAKING MY DAYS SO INTERESTING AND EDUCATIONAL, BECAUSE AMONGST THIS GROUP WERE SOME SAVVY COLLECTORS AND DEALERS, WITH A WEALTH OF INFORMATION AND EXPERIENCE TO SHARE. IN OUR PRESENT SHOP, I'M IN A KIND OF PERPETUAL TIME WARP, BECAUSE SOME OF MY MUCH OLDER CRONIES HAVE RETURNED, AFTER CLOSE TO EIGHTEEN YEARS ABSENCE FROM MAIN STREET RETAILING. IT'S QUITE A SHOCK TO LOOK UP OVER THE COUNTER, AND SEE SOME OF THOSE OLD FAMILIAR FACES I USED TO DEPEND ON……TO LIGHTEN THE BURDEN OF SO MANY SLOW DAYS IN THE OFF-SEASON. I LOOKED UP ONE DAY, JUST BEFORE CHRISTMAS THIS YEAR, AND THE OUTSTRETCHED HAND OF ROB BOUND, OF BRACEBRIDGE, COMMANDED A HANDSHAKE FOR OLD TIMES SAKE. I SPENT A LOT OF TIME TALKING ABOUT LOCAL POLITICS WITH ROB, AND I USED TO SELL HIS NEAT OLD WINDOW FRAMES HE HAD REFASHIONED, INTO STYLISH DECORATOR MIRRORS. I USED TO APOLOGIZE TO ROB FREQUENTLY, AS WITH MANY CONSIGNORS, BECAUSE IN THOSE YEARS OF THE RECESSION, ALL MAIN STREET ENTERPRISES WERE STRUGGLING TO HANG ONTO THEIR BUSINESSES. SO WE UNFORTUNATELY DIDN'T SELL A LOT FOR THEM. I ALWAYS FELT BAD ABOUT THIS FAILURE TO DEPLOY. I GOT SKUNKED SO MANY DAYS IN A ROW, I STARTED TO LEAVE MY METAL CASH BOX AT HOME IN THE MORNING.

     WHEN I REFER TO THE "LIAR'S CLUB," AS RIMSTEAD USED TO CALL THE COLLECTIVE OF BLOKES HE MET AT THE BAR, IT WAS IN NO WAY MEANT TO BE DEROGATORY IN REFERENCE. QUITE THE OPPOSITE. IT WAS JUST KIND OF AN INFORMAL DEBATING SOCIETY, WHERE THE TRUTH WAS NEVER ALLOWED TO SPOIL AN OTHERWISE GOOD STORY. SO WHEN I CALL MY FRIENDS THE BIRCH HOLLOW LIAR'S CLUB, IT IS WITH ONLY THE GREATEST REVERENCE AND FRIENDSHIP…..BECAUSE THEY KEPT THIS ANTIQUE DEALER FROM GOING BONKERS……TRYING TO KILL TIME, AND FIGURE OUT NEW WAYS OF MAKING MONEY. ADMITTEDLY, THIS PERIOD WAS A BALL BREAKER FOR ANTIQUE DEALERS. BUT WE SURVIVED. IN PART, BECAUSE THEY WOULDN'T LET ME QUIT.

    NOW HERE IN THE WORDS OF PAUL RIMSTEAD, FROM THE BOOK, "COCKTAILS AND JOCKSTRAPS," PRENTICE-HALL CANADA, 1980.

THE WRITER'S LIFE AMONGST FRIENDS…..AT A BAR……IN MEXICO…..WITH NARY A CARE

     "On New Year's Day, 1972, we crossed into Mexico at Laredo, and as we cruised through Neuva Laredo, on the Mexican side, there was a sudden explosion. Someone had thrown a rock at the van and hit the window on the passenger's side, knocking off the Missus's glasses. Welcome to Mexico! Three days later we pulled into the picture-book town of San Miguel de Allende, with its church spires and cobblestone streets, and peddlers selling their wares from the backs of their donkeys. As we turned off from the main plaza and went down to our rented house, neither of us noticed the two little swinging doors that would change our lives. We lived on a street called Zacateros. This was where my book would be written, up in that studio on the roof. Conditions were absolutely ideal. It was everything that I had read in Writer's Yearbook,' wrote Paul Rimstead, eager to get cracking on the next bestselling novel.

     "We bought our food in the outdoor market and even had a maid. The Senora, a wonderful lady who spoke no English but who remains a friend today. She lives in what is little more than a mud hut and, by herself, raised a large family, including a twenty-year old son named Elauterio who found the house for us and became my most valuable contact in the Mexican community. The Missus, who was quite a good equestrian, began working as an instructor each morning at the Escuela Ecuestre, an internationally known riding academy, operated by an American named Harold Black. Our daughter Tracy was enrolled in John F. Kennedy School in Queretaro, 45 kilometers south, where subjects were taught in English in the mornings and Spanish in the afternoons. I would walk her up to the plaza very early each morning to catch her school bus and, on the way back to the house, stop for a cup of coffee with sculptor Ronn Crabbe, who would already be working in his studio. The Senora would have prepared a breakfast of fresh fruit - papaya, grapefruit, oranges, pineapple - and, after eating, The Missus would drive up the mountain to the riding academy, and I would go up to my studio to write. I had brought paper, typewriter, ribbons, carbon, three ring binders, and even a three-hole punch," he wrote. "Life should have been perfect. It wasn't. Remember those swinging doors I mentioned earlier? I went through them one day and discovered the greatest little bar in the world. It was called 'La Cucaracha (The Cockroach) and was known plainly as 'The Cue' (Kook). In not time at all, I was accepted by the inner circle and became a regular. I called it the 'Literary, Intellectual, Artistic, Reading Society' which, when shortened, was the 'LIARS' CLUB '."

     Rimmer writes, "Club members were people like 'The Judge,' 'Tony the Painter,' 'Deathmarch Hal,' 'The Midnight Cowboy,' 'Torpedo Sam,' 'Nursey,' 'Racetrack Sandy,' - characters who were known by the uppity Americans and Canadians on the hill, as 'those horrid people at the Cucaracha'. But, they were the best conversationalists and most intriguing circle of friends I ever had. The bar was a tiny place with just a few wooden tables and chairs in the front room, and a standup bar in the back, where the Mexicans drank. Drinks were cheap and Chucho, the proprietor, was the guardian angel of the gringos, running bar tables until the money came from home. San Miguel was considered to be an artist's colony but rather, it was a home for lost souls, widows, divorcees, and people who were trying to survive on small pensions. They pretended they were writing, pretended they were painting. They were drinking and laughing. Drinking and talking. The bar was famous enough to have been written about in feature stories in major magazines, including a long piece in Esquire. Norman Mailer drank there, so did the guy who wrote 'The Hustler.' Nobody got to know it better than me. I was a regular, arriving at noon each day, drinking until two or three in the afternoon or until The Missus came in, leading Miss Wigglebum (their dog) on a leash, and firing me one of her patented looks."

     He concludes, "I suppose, in agreeing to go to Mexico, The Missus thought things would be better down there. At least we would be together. But, when we were together all the time, she discovered she didn't really like me at all. We had been in San Miguel three months when she decided that she had enough. She took Tracey and left me."  Rimstead wrote, "After she left, I threw myself into single life with a vengeance and several bottles of tequila. I closed the three-ring binder forever, kept writing my columns, and took up permanent residence at the Cucharacha. When I heard, in 1979, that the Cue had been sold and closed, It was as if I had lost a good friend."

     Well, the LIARS' Club of the former Birch Hollow Antiques was a sober bunch. We never shared anything more than good conversation, some cough lozenges when we had colds, and a few "looks," when spouses had to come downstairs to break up the meeting, in order to get home for dinner. Rimstead's "LIARS Club," was admittedly hard core to our much softer approach to togetherness…..and for professional purposes as well. But I know what Rimmer meant about the gathering of kindred spirits. We were all a little bored back then, and we found that discussing antiques and collectibles passed the time rather nicely. I will always think fondly of that group of conversationalists. And by the way, during this time, in between customers and the LIARS' Club get-togethers, I wrote four manuscripts, and handled two other freelance writing jobs……while having a regular newspaper column in the Muskoka Advance, and feature articles in The Muskoka Sun. Of course, I waited to get home to have a wee pint of ale. That pleased my Missus.

     I don't know if another "LIARS' Club,' will form in our new location. I'm certainly open to the idea. I'm just not sure my conversation is as sensible as it was back in my youth. I find myself repeating stories so often, Suzanne calls me her "broken record," companion. I suppose I should be concerned she thinks I'm losing my marbles, but hey, I get away with a lot of stuff these days because of it. Like, "I'm sorry dear. I forgot what you told me to do!" It works for me.

     Thanks for visiting today. I appreciate you dropping by for a visit and a read through the latest blog. I'm antique hunting tomorrow with our family, and I always look forward to hitting that open road…….and seeing this great province of ours……laden in snow is nice too. See you again soon. Drive carefully out there.

Bracebridge Corner Stores and The Collectibles I Cherished; Christmas Season Fun

HOCKEY AND BASEBALL CARDS STARTED THE BALL ROLLING - THAT NEVER STOPPED ROLLING FROM THEN TO NOW

CORNER STORE PURCHASES WERE MY OPENING PASSION - WASHED DOWN BY A MILLION COLD POP

     I WAS A CORNER-STORE JUNKIE. I CAN ADMIT IT NOW. I'M COOL WITH YOU KNOWING THIS LONG-HELD SECRET. THAT'S RIGHT. I USED TO HANG AROUND THE VERANDAH AND FRONT STEP OF THE TWO CORNER STORES, ON BRACEBRIDGE'S HUNT'S HILL. I WAS A PATIENT LITTLE BUGGER. I'D WAIT FOR THE COOL TEENAGE CROWD, TO BUY THEIR BOTTLES OF COKE, STAND AROUND OUT FRONT OF THE STORE, LOOKING AND ACTING LIKE BIG TIMERS, AND THEN BEING WILLING TO DO ANY DANCE THEY WANTED, SO I COULD GET THE EMPTIES. I WAS A CHAMPION POP BOTTLE SCAVENGER BACK THEN, IN THE MID 1960'S. I COULD GET TWO CENTS FOR EACH BOTTLE, FIVE CENTS FOR A BIG ONE. BUT SEEING AS YOU COULD GET THIRTY BLACKBALLS FOR TEN CENTS, THIS WAS A LUCRATIVE ENTERPRISE. ON A SATURDAY MORNING, BEFORE NOON, I MIGHT HAVE BEEN ABLE TO RESCUE, OR BE HANDED, TWELVE OR MORE EMPTIES. I WAS A SHREWD BUYER OF SHOWCASE CANDY, AND IT WAS ALSO THE REASON I COST MY PARENTS HUNDREDS OF DOLLARS EVERY YEAR, WITH BILLS FROM THE DENTIST. BUT HONESTLY, HANGING AROUND THOSE SIMPLE, STUFFED TO THE RAFTERS CORNER STORES, WAS PART OF MY EDUCATION IN THE ANTIQUE AND COLLECTIBLE BUSINESS. ALL THAT TIME INVESTED SEEMS TO HAVE PAID OFF. AND I HELPED OUR FAMILY DENTIST HAVE A DECENT RETIREMENT. THERE WAS MORE THAN BLACKBALLS IN THOSE MAGNIFICENT, LONG AND SPARKLING GLASS AND WOOD SHOWCASES, AT LIL AND CEC'S VARIETY STORE ON TORONTO STREET. THERE WERE PACKETS OF HOCKEY CARDS WITH GUM SO STALE, IT WOULD SHATTER INTO A TRILLION PIECES IF IT WAS ACCIDENTALLY DROPPED. THE PLETHORA OF TREATS INSIDE THE CASE LOOKED LIKE A JACKSON POLLOCK PAINTING. THERE WERE SO MANY COLORS AND SHAPES FOR THE EYES AND IMAGINATION TO JUDGE.

     THE OTHER CORNER STORE ON OUR BLOCK, WAS BAMFORD'S, AND IT WAS PART OF THE WOODLEY PARK COTTAGES. WE LIVED ON ALICE STREET, A MINUTE JOG FROM OUR APARTMENT, TO THE DOORSTEPS OF BOTH. IT WAS PERFECT FOR A KID WHO NEEDED HIS CANDY FIX. WHEN I GOT MY ALLOWANCE ON FRIDAY NIGHT, I SPENT HALF AT ONE STORE, AND BY SATURDAY AT NOON, THE REST OF IT WENT TO THE OTHER CORNER SHOP. LIL AND CEC'S HAD GREAT CENT CANDY, AND ICE COLD POP.  BAMFORDS HAD COMICS AND INTERESTING MERCHANDISE, TO GO ALONG WITH THEIR COOLERS OF FIVE CENT POPSICLES. I BOUGHT MY FIRST MINOR LEAGUE BALL GLOVE AT BAMFORDS, AND THE WOODEN BAT TO GO WITH IT. BOTH SHOPS WERE FULL OF TODAY'S NOSTALGIA. I MUST HAVE KNOWN WHAT WAS TO COME, WITH MY ANTIQUE GENES, BECAUSE I WAS KEENLY TUNED TO THOSE SPECIAL PIECES TO COLLECT, FOR INVESTMENT VALUE, SOMEWHERE AND TIME DOWN THE ROAD. WE HAD LOTS OF COKE BOTTLE CAPS, WITH STAR HOCKEY PLAYERS PRINTED ON THE TOP. AS ROGER CROZIER WAS ON ONE OF THE CAPS, AND HE WAS A BRACEBRIDGE LAD WHO MADE IT BIG IN THE NATIONAL HOCKEY LEAGUE'S ORIGINAL SIX, WITH THE DETROIT RED WINGS, WE ALL WANTED HIS IMAGE IN OUR COLLECTIONS. I HAD AT LEAST TEN. I'VE ONLY GOT ONE LEFT.

     AS I THINK BACK TO ALL THE INFLUENCES I HAD, TO SCULPT THE ANTIQUE DEALER OF TODAY, I CAN'T SKIP PAST THIS CORNER STORE CULTURE BECAUSE IT WAS HUGE FOR ALL OF US NEIGHBORHOOD KIDS. WHETHER YOU HAPPENED TO BE COLLECTING THE PRIZES FROM LUCKY ELEPHANT, CRACKER JACKS, HOSTESS CHIPS, OR THOSE ORANGE ICE CREAM CONES, "BURIED TREASURE" I THINK THEY WERE CALLED, HOCKEY, BASEBALL OR NOVELTY CARDS FROM THE BEATLES, TO THE MUNSTERS, THESE STORES KEPT US AS CUSTOMERS…..BECAUSE WE NEEDED THEIR MERCHANDISE TO COMPLETE OUR COLLECTIONS. MY FAVORITE BACK THEN, WERE THE PLASTIC PLANES THAT CAME IN HOSTESS CHIPS, I THINK, AND ANYTHING HOCKEY RELATED, FROM THOSE BOTTLE CAPS, I MENTIONED, TO THE HOCKEY CARDS, OPECHEE OFFERED WITH THE ROCK HARD GUM THAT HURT YOUR TEETH.

     MY PARENTS USED TO GIVE ME A DOLLAR ON FRIDAY NIGHT, CIRCA 1967, AND I MAY HAVE BEEN ABLE TO ADD THAT TO ANY MONEY I MADE SHOVELLING SNOW AT OUR APARTMENT, OR MOWING THE LAWN. I WASN'T VERY GOOD AT EITHER OCCUPATION, BUT THE LANDLORD FIGURED, THAT IF HE KEPT ME BUSY TRYING TO EARN MONEY, I WOULDN'T DO GRIEVOUS DAMAGE TO ANYTHING OR ANYONE ELSE. I GOT FIRED TWICE FOR SENDING GRASS CLIPPINGS AND DIRT INTO A DOWNSTAIRS APARTMENT, (WHICH EXPLAINED THEIR DIRT-COVERED FACES WHEN THEY EMERGED) AND SIMILARLY IN THE WINTER, WHEN I COMPLETELY BURIED BASEMENT WINDOWS WITH SNOW. I DIDN'T KNOW THAT THE WARM GLASS WOULD MELT THE SNOW, AND CREATE A WATER PROBLEM FOR THOSE NICE PEOPLE, WHEN THEY GOT HOME FROM WORK…..AND HAD TO DON THEIR WELLINGTONS TO WATCH TELEVISION.  ANYWAY, EVEN MY PARENTS WOULD GIVE ME MONEY TO "GO AWAY," AND I WAS ALWAYS BEING GIVEN "SMOKE RUNS," WHEN I HAD TO CHARGE OVER TO BAMFORDS TO BUY CIGARETTES. THE DEAL WAS, UNLESS THEY GAVE ME A TEN DOLLAR BILL, THE CHANGE LEFTOVER, WAS MINE FOR MY "FETCHING SERVICE." I WAS MAKING SOME PRETTY GOOD COIN BACK THEN, FOR STAYING AWAY FROM HOME.

     THE REAL CRAFT HERE, WAS MY ABILITY TO COAX A POP BOTTLE OUT OF YOUR HAND, SO I COULD CASH IT IN, FOR THE DEPOSIT. I WOULD WAIT AROUND THE SIDE OF LIL AND CEC'S, LURKING CLOSE ENOUGH TO HEAR THE POP BOTTLES HIT THE GARBAGE CAN OUT FRONT. THE COOL DUDES WHO GATHERED ON THE STEPS OF THE STORE, TO TALK ABOUT THE LOCAL CHICKS THEY WANTED TO DATE, WERE MUCH TOO COOL TO GO BACK INTO THE STORE FOR A COUPLE OF CENTS DEPOSIT. TO KIDS LIKE US, WITH AN INSATIABLE APPETITE FOR CENT CANDY, DIVING INTO THOSE BARRELS WITHOUT HESITATION……WAS AS NATURAL AS JUMPING OFF THE ROCKS INTO THE MUSKOKA RIVER AT BASS ROCK. IF THE COMPETITION WAS FIERCE THAT PARTICULAR DAY, FOR THE RETURNS, WE'D BE SO BOLD AS TO STAND UNDER THE TEENAGERS' RAISED ELBOWS, TO BE FIRST TO GRAB THE EMPTIES ON THE DOWNSWING. I WAS A SUGAR ADDICT AND WHETHER IT WAS A SACK FULL OF JUJUBES, BLACK BALLS, JAW BREAKERS, SHERBETS WITH THE LICORICE STRAW (I ALMOST DIED TWICE INHALING THESE THINGS) A STRAND OF CANDY WE COULD WEAR AROUND OUR NECKS WHILE EATING…….. OR SWEET TARTS, WE LEFT THOSE SHOP STAIRS WITH WILD, CRAZY EYES…..WITH ENOUGH ENERGY TO RUN UP THE SIDE OF A BUILDING, AND CHASE TRAINS.  ADD TO THIS THE SEVERAL POP AND EITHER CARAMEL CORN, CANDY POPCORN, OR POTATO CHIPS, AND WE SHOULD HAVE BEEN TOE-TAGGED AS THE "RECENTLY DECEASED." I'M AMAZED I STILL HAVE MY TEETH. MY MOTHER ACTUALLY STARTED TO CRY, WHEN THE DENTIST CAME OUT OF THE EXAMINATION ROOM ONE SUMMER DAY, TO SHOW HER THE SHOCKING X-RAY. ELEVEN CAVITIES CREATED SINCE THE LAST CHECK-UP, LESS THAN A YEAR PREVIOUS. SHE CRIED IN THE DENTIST'S OFFICE BUT SCREAMED AT ME ALL THE WAY HOME. SHE MIGHT HAVE HIT ME TOO, BUT I COULD DART AND WEAVE PRETTY GOOD, FOR A CHUNKY KID. IF SHE HIT ME ON THE BEHIND, SHE'D JUST WASTE THE SLAP HITTING THE FULL BAG OF CENT CANDY I BOUGHT BEFORE GOING TO THE DENTIST.

     I WAS MOST DEFINITELY INFLUENCED BY THE CORNER STORE SHOPPING EXPERIENCE. ALL OF US KIDS SPENT FAR TOO MUCH TIME, AND WAY TOO MUCH MONEY, BUYING JUNK FOOD AND CANDY, BUT OF ALL MY MATES BACK THEN, BY GOLLY, WE'RE ALL STILL HALE AND HARDY AFTER ALL THESE YEARS. THE SHOP OWNERS ARE ALL GONE NOW, AND THEY WERE LIKE FAMILY, BECAUSE WE SPENT JUST AS MUCH TIME IN THEIR SHOPS, OR HUNKERED DOWN ON THEIR FRONT STEPS, AS WE DID HANGING AROUND HOME. IF MY MOTHER WAS GOING OUT SOMEWHERE, AND SHE WAS WORRIED ABOUT WHAT I WAS GOING TO GET UP TO, ALL I HAD SAY WAS, "RICK, DON AND I ARE GOING TO HANG OUT AT BAMFORDS FOR AWHILE," OR "WE'RE MEETING AT LIL AND CEC'S," AND THAT WAS AS GOOD TO HER, AS HAVING TO PAY SOME POOR SOUL TO BABYSIT THE IMPOSSIBLE CHILD.

WHAT WE LEARNED FROM ALL THAT CANDY AND HANGING AROUND

     I started going to those corner shops in the winter of 1966. I left for university, in Toronto, in the fall of 1974. In those eight years, I was immersed in "mom and pop" corner store culture. I knew everything about them. I was there so often, I heard them talking to sales people about their next order. I knew when the next shipment of comics was coming into Bamfords Store, and when the fresh boxes of hockey cards were going to arrive. If I wasn't in the store itself, to overhear these high level discussions, I'd be sitting on the two by four railing, and listening through the screen door. I was often first to see the owners unpack the new displays issued shopkeeps, from coke and Pepsi delivery personnel, and lots of other product advertising, that I'd beg for as soon as it was unfolded and placed by the pop cases. That always pissed me off. I never once got one of those Coke Santa displays, because, as I found out later, some collector routinely offered them money to save it for them. I was still working the honor system back then. I ask for the stuff, and you…..the store owner, say in return, "You are the first person to ask for it…..so it will be yours when the promotion is over." That seemed fair to one and all. I find out now they were selling stuff like this off, without even suggesting I make counter-offers. I had money. I could have raised even more. I was a hustler, as well as a pain in the ass.

    On a hot summer night, it was just great to hang out there, listening to the air conditioner and its constant drip onto the asphalt. We'd sit there, slowly sipping one of those ice cold pops, pulled out of the chest Coke cooler with the ice cold water and the linked metal track and gates. Lil and Cec had one of these but they disabled the coin slot, as they liked it better, when you paid at the counter. When it was fully engaged, every third person had to beg assistance, because the coinage hadn't open the locked track. I always remember the ice cold sensation of that near-frozen water, on those sweltering days of late July. "Teddy, just take the pop and close the lid please," Lil would ask me kindly. I was a third responder, so by time she had asked me nicely twice, the third was like a sonic boom, to "close the damn lid kid!" Each of the proprietors had a threshold, and I like to think I helped them reach it, each day, when they'd see me for the first of twelve visits, until the last silhouette of me leaving, a minute before closing. "That kid is going to drive me nuts," was the chorus of final statements whispered in my honor.

     I will always have a soft spot for nostalgia. I will always experience a mildly compelling sensation, to visit a corner store, just for old time's sake…..to see if they still carry black balls and sweet tarts. It was part of my upbringing and the shop owners were alternate parents, and they disciplined us when necessary. They'd put us to work as well, especially at Bamfords, where caretaking around the cottages was getting a little much for Fred and Mary Bamford. I can remember standing with Fred Bamford one day, as he was explaining what clean-up work he wanted me to do, in return for treat money, and two chickadees landed on his head. He had put birdseed in his hair. Then there was a chipmunk on his foot, where he had also hidden some seeds. This was odd, but the squirrel in one hand, and the eventual blue jay on the other, was unprecedented. He was just like that, and as the owner of Bamford's Woods, a small acreage across from our apartment, he allowed us to play in the urban park whenever we so desired. Honestly, he was the kindest person I've ever known. The creatures of that little woodlot were his best mates, and this wasn't the only time I saw him with critters on his head and eating from his hands.

     Today, I don't really know how all these corner store, cent candy and nostalgia purchases, influenced me to morph into the collector / dealer I am today. But I think more than anything else, it was all about the accommodations they made for us, allowing the whole kid nation of that blue collar neighborhood, to use their stores as convenient meeting places. I loved the way they pleasantly cluttered their shops, the aroma of sweets, and the visuals of product labeling and seasonal promotions I so looked forward to.  I loved the creaking old wood floors, and the sound of the swinging screen  door, the way it whacked hard on the way in, and even harder on the way out, as we ran off with our treats half-in-mouth, the rest hanging out of our pockets. I remember a little bastard lighting a string of mini firecrackers I had hanging out of my pocket, with a lighter he'd taken from his father. You want to talk about a scorched behind. I ran, dropped, rolled, and ran all over the place, my shorts smoking well down the street. Good times. Just so you know, I knocked the same kid's box of Lucky Elephant out of his hands, the very next time we had a face to face, and my friend's dog ate the candied popcorn off the driveway. The kid ran home crying and that dog farted and farted for the rest of the day.

     I'm a sucker for this kind of nostalgia…..even shared stories of corner store experiences my readers have also enjoyed. You know, we still have boxes and boxes of hockey and baseball cards, and I think the boys have some Beatles Cards I purchased way back when, in one of those mom and pop corner stores, where the culture was commerce, but the setting was small town Ontario. It was rural immersion, and a pleasant pre-occupation from everything else that was going on around town in the late 1960's. My mother once admitted, "I don't know what we would have done without Lil and Cec, and good old Fred Bamford, looking after you." I have to admit, it would have been a much different childhood without their participation in my upbringing.

     I'm really glad you came for a visit today. By the end of this coming weekend, I will hit a milestone that honestly, I couldn't have imagined a year ago, when I began blogging daily. While I don't celebrate every time I register another ten thousand hits, I am awfully impressed, that I will soon hit 50,000 views in a matter of several days. Now this isn't daily like some celebrity bloggers. That would be neat though. It's not a weekly or monthly milestone, and admittedly that would also be neat. It's the number of hits or views I've had since November of 2011. I was knocked off my feet, when I hit ten thousand. Now I'm still averaging between 280 and 350 daily, which is quadruple what I was receiving only four months ago. Hey, I don't take any reader for granted, and I want to earn your trust, and write pieces that are insightful and a little risque at the same time. Entertaining would also be nice. Like I say, I appreciate status quo and complacency when it comes to the plumbing and shingles here at Birch Hollow, and with the operation of the family vehicle, but for most other things, I like them to be exciting and a little unpredictable. It's how I've operated as a dealer and collector from the beginning. That's a condition of the profession, where I might bring home a portion of dinosaur bone, with a box of old books, a couple of vintage baseball gloves and bats, a 1960's bike with basket on the handlebar, and maybe even a Boston rocker for the shop. Possibly even a painting to go with the folk-art sculpture of a futuristic lawnmower I couldn't live without. So in other words, a life and times as unpredictable as I remember it from childhood. Please come again soon for another visit. I've got some dandy stories to tell, so I need an audience.

Christmas At Bracebridge Hall; Woodchester Villa

THE WRITER'S CHRISTMAS - I AM A PONDERER, A LOVER OF QUIET CONTEMPLATION - AND A SOCIAL OUTCAST

ON BEING THE OBSERVER, AND INTERPRETER

     "MY CHAMBER WAS IN THE OLD PART OF THE MANSION, THE PONDEROUS FURNITURE OF WHICH MIGHT HAVE BEEN FABRICATED IN THE DAYS OF GIANTS. THE ROOM WAS PANELED, WITH CORNICES OF HEAVEY CARVED WORK, IN WHICH FLOWERS AND GROTESQUE FACES WERE STRANGELY INTERMINGLED, AND A ROW OF BLACK-LOOKING PORTRAITS STARED MOURNFULLY AT ME FROM THE WALLS. THE BED WAS OF RICH, THOUGH FADED DAMASK, WITH A LOFTY TESTER, AND STOOD IN THE NICHE OPPOSITE THE BOW WINDOW. I HAD SCARECELY  GOT INTO BED WHEN A STRAIN OF MUSIC SEEMED TO BREAK FORTH IN THE AIR JUST BELOW THE WINDOW. I LISTENED, AND FOUND IT PROCEEDED FROM A BAND, WHICH I CONCLUDED TO BE THE WAITS FROM SOME NEIGHBORING VILLAGE. THEY WENT AROUND THE HOUSE, PLAYING UNDER THE WINDOWS. I DREW ASIDE THE CURTAINS TO HEAR THEM MORE DISTINCTLY. THE MOONBEAMS FELL THROUGH THE UPPER PART OF THE CASEMENT, PARTIALLY LIGHTING UP THE ANTIQUATED APARTMENT. THE SOUNDS, AS THEY RECEDED, BECAME MORE SOFT AND AERIAL, AND SEEMED TO ACCORD WITH QUIET MOONLIGHT. I LISTENED AND LISTENED - THEY BECAME MORE AND MORE TENDER AND REMOTE, AND, AS THEY GRADUALLY DIED AWAY, MY HEAD SUNK UPON THE PILLOW AND I FELL ASLEEP." (CHRISTMAS EVE)

     THE PASSAGE ABOVE WAS WRITTEN BY AMERICAN AUTHOR, WASHINGTON IRVING, IN HIS EARLY 1800'S PRESENTATION OF "THE SKETCH BOOK," WHICH INTRODUCED THE READER, FOR THE FIRST OF TWO BOOKS, WITH SQUIRE BRACEBRIDGE, OWNER OF A LARGE ENGLISH ESTATE, AND HIS VISITOR, GEOFFREY CRAYON, THE FICTIONAL TRAVELLER, WHO WAS FAIRLY CLOSE IN CHARACTER TO IRVING HIMSELF…..AND HIS LOVE FOR BRITISH COUNTRYSIDE RAMBLINGS AND CHERISHED TRADITIONS.

      "WHEN I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING, IT SEEMED AS IF ALL THE EVENTS OF THE PRECEDING EVENING HAD BEEN A DREAM, AND NOTHING BUT THE IDENTITY OF THE ANCIENT CHAMBER CONVINCED ME OF THEIR REALITY. WHILE I LAY MUSING ON MY PILLOW, I HEARD THE SOUND OF LITTLE FEET PATTERING OUTSIDE OF THE DOOR, AND A WHISPERING CONSULTATION. PRESENTLY A CHOIR OF SMALL VOICES CHANTED FORTH AN OLD CHRISTMAS CAROL, THE BURDEN OF WHICH WAS, 'REJOICE, OUR SAVIOUR HE WAS BORN, ON CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE MORNING.' I ROSE SOFTLY, SLIPPED ON MY CLOTHES, OPENED THE DOOR SUDDENLY, AND BEHELD ONE OF THE MOST BEAUTIFUL LITTLE FAIRY GROUPS THAT A PAINTER COULD IMAGINE. IT CONSISTED OF A BOY AND TWO GIRLS, THE ELDEST NOT MORE THAN SIX, AND LOVELY AS SERAPHS. THEY WERE GOING THE ROUNDS OF THE HOUSE, SINGING AT EVERY CHAMBER DOOR, BUT MY SUDDEN APPEARANCE FRIGHTENED THEM INTO MUTE BASHFULNESS. THEY REMAINED FOR A MOMENT PLAYING ON THEIR LIPS WITH THEIR FINGERS, AND NOW AND THEN STEALING A SHY GLANCE FROM UNDER THEIR EYEBROWS, UNTIL, AS IF BY ONE IMPULSE, THEY SCAMPERED AWAY, AND AS THEY TURNED AN ANGLE OF THE GALLERY, I HEARD THEM LAUGHING IN TRIUMPH AT THEIR ESCAPE.

     "EVERYTHING CONSPIRED TO PRODUCE KIND AND HAPPY FEELINGS IN THIS STRONGHOLD OF OLD FASHIONED HOSPITALITY. THE WINDOW OF MY CHAMBER LOOKED OUT UPON WHAT IN SUMMER WOULD HAVE BEEN A BEAUTIFUL LANDSCAPE. THERE WAS NO SLOPING LAWN, A FINE STREAM OF WINDING AT THE FOOT OF IT, AND A TRACT OF PARK BEYOND, WITH NOBLE CLUMPS OF TREES AND HERDS OF DEER. AT A DISTANCE WAS A NEAT HAMLET, WITH THE SMOKE FROM THE COTTAGE CHIMNEYS HANGING OVER IT; AND A CHURCH, WITH ITS DARK SPIRE IN STRONG RELIEF AGAINST THE CLEAR COLD SKY."

A SEASONAL SOJOURN OF THE REINCARNATED

     Occasionally, at this time of year, I will talk with Suzanne, at some length over mulled cider, about my family from England. The "Jackson" side of my family tree. Quite a number of the Jackson, including William and Benjamin, who had resided within easy travel of Liverpool, emigrated to Canada, in the mid 1800's, to better their lives, on newly opened farmsteads near Brighton, Ontario. Suzanne is a whiz at family history, and has over the past three years, given us a full tree, instead of the few meagre branches, that we'd been going on wrongly, as gospel, for three decades at least. She adores her subscription to Ancestry.ca. When we begin chatting about our family roots overseas, inevitably we will bring up the possibility that we have been reincarnated into the modern era, from family stock going back centuries…..maybe to Elizabethan times. We both, you see, have particularly poignant feelings, at times, almost as if, like the sudden jerk of a heart-string, from somewhere beyond mortality, we are sent abruptly into some historic ambience, and attire, we have given up trying to explain. We each have different triggers, that will give us that curious, momentary instinct, we were part of another time period. It could be the sensory arousal, from something as simple as a wafting fragrance, or scent of roast beef cooking in the oven…..the aroma of spices or fresh herbs. Flowers as perfume. It can also be a weather condition, the sunrise or sunset, or a motor trip through the countryside, that makes us reflect on something we know nothing (apparently) about. I can tell when she's having some historical flashback, although mine are usually always experienced in solitude situations, and most often the result of two aggressive triggers, sometimes all at once…..which is definitely of the nature of "fantastic."

     The first trigger, is when I spend long hours at this keyboard. Tonight, for example, I was supposed to attend a party, my lads were throwing, for their friends and business associates. As I am a true social misfit, and hate small talk with a passion, I opted out with the apology….."Geez, I'd love to, but I've got a blog to write." Even in the few minutes I sat here, trying to put together the basics for a column, I was drawn, to the point of being compelled, to Washington Irving's book in the case above my desk. The reason I enjoy Irving's writing, especially about old England, is that it has, all my life, been the one sure exposure, that will send my spirit wandering the English moors, looking for Squire Bracebridge's estate. Since I began reading Irving, as a teenager, I have made it a regular visitation ever since. Do you know, that even Charles Dickens, admitted, he often retired to bedlam, with a copy of a Washington Irving book, tucked under his arm. For some reason, it is Irving more than any other writer, even Dickens, who has for long and long, stimulated my imagination well beyond the story, such that I can find my concentration taken over by thoughts and memories I can't logically explain. It's as if Irving's work, especially his Christmas stories, open up a portal for my old well-travelled soul, to cross back into familiar history. It has always been a haunting experience, yet remarkable enough, that I can't help tempting the situation, feeling that one day, I may actually discover the truth behind the strange, alluring aura of commonplace, that puts me in the English countryside…..where possibly I once lived in a former life. Is it an over-active imagination? Wishful fantasy? Or just the trappings of a good writer, Washington Irving, doing what accomplished authors are supposed to do…..with any story they write. Take you on an adventure!

     The second most powerful trigger, is anything played on a lute. I must have been a musician way back, and it is Elizabethan period songs, that can make me melt into a sentimental whirling dervish, trying relentlessly, to escape my mortal fetters……without knowing why it's is so imperative to break free. I can eventually collect the visualizations, of the same English countryside, almost to the point where I could walk to the place I once resided. I have heard period songs, that hurt my heart. The passion for a return, to those times, being so imbedded in my soul……possessing some meaning and romantic overture, I am at a loss to understand…..at least in this mortal capacity. If you have ever felt similarly, and believe in the possibilities of reincarnation, I certainly don't need to explain this further. You have been strangely titillated by the exposure to something, that acts to inspire thoughts, that may not be your own….at least in this lifetime. In my case, if I was to listen to Elizabethan music daily, I would turn into a jelly of formless sentimentality…..because this is what happens, even when I occasionally hear the music, performed on CBC 2, my channel of choice. I sit there speechless, and let messenger ghosts remind me I'm being beckoned by another century. It's not that I like this period music, but it has a power over me, that makes my knees wobble more than usual. I can feel myself part of a courtyard dance, with a woman I must have known from this same era, and it is definitely not my wife. I can see her face so clearly, it becomes very unsettling, as if the very thought, and dance of which I can't control, smacks of infidelity……unless I turn the music off quickly before anything happens. And yes, it is like seeing a wayward spirits, and no fooling, I'm one of them. I've referenced this before, in these stories, and especially in my Muskoka and Algonquin Ghost blogs….., that I have seen my ghost before…..and it's not like I wouldn't know the chap. When the ghost wanders about, in Elizabethan times, I must admit, the face of the dancer, is not the one I see in the mirror each morning…..but the aura is definitely something I'm familiar with. I don't tell Suzanne about these weird time-travel, deja vu' experiences, because they stretch miles beyond what she has felt similarly; hers always representing a more recent history…….such as from the pioneer years, like her ancestors, working the rocky soil of Muskoka, near Three Mile Lake, at Ufford. I think my reincarnation skipped a few centuries, because I definitely have never managed a plow or used hay fork, even in my wildest dream, or nightmare.

     What really gets my spirit travels up and going, is the approach of the Christmas season. There is no other time of the year, as strong for these deja vu' sensations, as the Christmas to New Years period. Even traveling in England, didn't cause much thoughtful recollection, of a previous life, which frankly shocked me.I've had these strange feelings since childhood. I think I tried too hard, to encourage these sudden feelings, because then it would have been easier to follow and maybe even research. If it is actually England or Scotland, in my flashbacks. I think it is, but these are all confusing time travels of the mind. For whatever reason, it is the Christmas season, most of all, that evokes thoughts of a past life. I am able to resolve a lot of these urges and issues, by writing, and when I have my most compelling periods, where I have one foot in an English dance, and the other here at Birch Hollow, I gather up my wayward soul, and set myself the task of writing about it; and anything the thoughts may generate on their own. I can tell you this honestly. I must also have been a writer then, possibly a "less than" great bard, who was particularly sensitive to the natural environment. When I feel this surging sentimentality, I am most prone to writing what I call my landscape pieces, which you can read by accessing my "Muskoka as Walden," blogsite, which I have used for several years, as an outlet, whenever nature calls…..and it most surely does……but I can tell you, it is because the landscape here at Birch Hollow, reminds me of an English moor. For the record, I have never once set foot in an English moor, at least in this chapter of "My Spirit Doth Travel." You will find hundreds of occasions, really without intent, where I have referenced a Muskoka lowland, or bog, as a "Moor," as if it is as familiar as the one that might have been written about, as a backdrop for a Sherlock Holmes murder mystery. It may be a bog, and a typical Muskoka wetland, with ponds, but when I write about it, during one of my deja vu' moments, it is a "moor." Plain and simple. Is this strange or not?

     At Christmas, I am an English townsman. I can see the thatched cottages, and the narrow, winding country lanes, with the neatly crafted rock fences, and the hills and valleys in the distance, that are simply not the topography of Muskoka. I can imagine myself lodging in some road house, waiting on a settle by the fire, for my mug of dark ale, and listening to the ice pellets hitting the roof and the wind creaking the old metal sign, on its rusted hinge, hanging above the door, out front. Like Irving's character, the good Mr. Crayon, I can hear and see the traditions of retired Christmases, as if they are new again……and I ponder for a moment, if I might ever be pulled back entirely, on one of these memorable sojourns from the present…..and if so, what would happen to my story right now……if this history became so compelling, as a vacuum, taking me all the way home, many mortal lifetimes from here? What might Suzanne think, upon finding only my slippers and still warm pipe, and the imprint of an old author, still recognizable on the chair cushion?

     "It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announcement of religion of peace and love, and has been made the season for gathering together of family connections, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts, which the caress and pleasures and sorrows of the world are continually operating to cast loose, of calling back the children of a family, who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying place, of the affections, there to grow young and loving again among the endearing mementoes of childhood." Washington Irving.

     Somehow, I have come to feel that Irving himself, a tireless preserver of British traditions, even as an American, felt the spirit-kind wasn't necessarily confined to one existence alone. Maybe it's why I cherish his work, as I do. There is a validation, to being called to assemble again, "about the paternal hearth, that rallying place, of the affections."

     Bless you, for visiting today, so close to Christmas Eve. I know you probably have better places to be…..finer acquaintances to visit, and warmer fires to sit beside, than this humble hearth of mine. I hope your Christmas season will be joyful and of course spirited, and spent happily in the festive aura of tradition and goodwill. We shall share this paternal hearth, at Birch Hollow, in the charming bailiwick……across from this snow-laden, enchanted lowland…..the moor. A Gravenhurst, Muskoka moor!

CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBRIDGE-CHRISTMAS AT BIRCH HOLLOW, OUR OWN MUSEUM IN GRAVENHURST

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.