The Patina of Home - The Amalgamation of Emotions and Fact
I like to retrace my youth spent in Bracebridge step by step. Literally. Physically. The art of the hike. The mindful jaunt in places familiar. I've taken many long strolls through my former neighborhoods, over the four seasons, just to see if by slim but hopeful chance, there's a ghost or two still wandering about from that era of the 1960's and 70's, when the town was on the cusp of what I feel has become a profound urbanizing change. I don't see them but I can feel their presence and it's not a bad or frightening thing to be in their company. I also write a ghost blog so the more the merrier!
There was a lot of history that wasn't recorded. It's not really the fault of historians past but the fact that most history of small towns in Ontario, for example, was tallied by newspaper reporters/editors, who purposely distanced fact from the "emotional facts......actuality of the event that took place." The borrowed news reports re-published in modern histories do not evoke much in the way of sentiment....because of course they were meant for the news pages where there is a strict format and protocol for presentation; a budget of words and a reduction of sentiment for sentiment's sake. It does however, leave a void of understanding. What was it like to watch a fallen soldier's body return home to the Bracebridge train station in a rough box......what was it like to stand on that platform with family who had some time earlier waved at their son as he headed out in defence of his country? Let the reader fill in the blanks. On re-write however, for the reader today, the old news reports have a corpse-like dryness about them, because they are hollow for the most part, of actuality.....like when the news commentator in the United States stated, in utter shock and horror.... "Oh, the humanity," when the great Zepellin caught fire and passengers dove, in flames, to their deaths. Events and personal tragedies that may have made the front pages of the weekly press, and into the hearts and souls of neighborhood folks then, are jammed into historical accounts now without accompanying explanation of what it all meant in human terms....not just in some writer's appreciation of the bare facts. Today these twists of fate are pretty much neglected unless conversation between hometowners enters that domain.
Events such as the death of two of my chums in a tunnel cave-in on Anne Street, just up the hill from the train tracks near Bass Rock, come to mind. No matter how many times it may re-appear in sundry mention in a feature article or book, unless there's some infilling, it becomes a news story only.....when in fact it was a community-shaping tragedy that affected the way we perceived our hometown fragility and our ability to save our children from a similar fate. When it was learned the boys had been trapped in the tunnel, neighbors and folks from all over, appeared on site with shovels, showing on their faces the very great fear of the unknown......that there may have been many others in that smothering hole in the side of the hill. Some who ran to that cave-in suspected their sons might be in there as well. Former Hospital Administrator Frank Henry, on hearing the news while at work, ran from the nearby medical facility with a shovel, he found in the maintenance department, to help dig the lads free. It was a Saturday and parents were frantic to connect with their youngsters situated at play all over town. My father phoned my mother Merle from the lumber yard where he worked, to find out if I was at home. I was. But I might not have been if not for a warning that came down the pike the night before, when several young lads asked their parents about helping our mates from school dig their army tunnel network the next day. When I announced my intention to trundle over to the same hillside, my mother stood in the doorway and said, "You're not going to be digging a tunnel today or ever.....and I don't care what you're friends think is a good idea....it's not....you can die if there's a cave-in." That was the statement made the night before. It's the reason I'm penning these thoughts now....because of any project I do get involved, I'm usually in the middle of everything going, including a tunnel dig. Just as I would have been on that rainy autumn day. I thought she might have changed her mind, or that possibly I could sneak past the sentry and wander over to Anne Street without my mother being any the wiser. By morning it was raining heavy and throughout most of the day it was a misty, cold ugliness. As it turned out, this was at least part of the problem that helped loosen a large portion of hillside, sliding down on top of the boys.
I will never forget the sombre mood of that town for weeks after. Students jammed the funeral home rooms to bid farewell to their chums and for many of us it was the first serious introduction to mortality. It happened on numerous other occasions, where accidents and general misadventures led to the death of friends......hockey playing mates, baseball colleagues, kids from the neighborhood who drowned or were involved in traffic mishaps. Sickness claimed quite a few others and most of us admittedly didn't understand why the young and resiliant were succumbing. For every community milestone, every accomplishment from a provincial sports honor to celebration of the Cavalcade of Color, there was no escaping the reality there was a patina of town life that was a precarious mix of good and bad, happiness and misery, new life being born to the citizenry and others taken away.....sometimes suddenly.
I can remember hearing about a traffic accident, as a kid, that happened on old Highway II at the intersection near The Pines Home for the Aged......a grisly tale that has stuck with me to this day because of what rescuers had to deal with at the scene. The word went around that summer afternoon that a head-on collision near the intersection had resulted in many serious injuries to mulitiple occupants of both vehicles. There were sirens coming from all over. We knew it was bad just by the responding vehicles..... , fire, ambulance and the police. From where we lived on Alice Street, much of the action passed down nearby Toronto Street on the way to the hospital. When the fire department arrived they knew at least one of the vehicles was going to require ripping apart to free the occupants. Before they could finish extracation of the injured, flames broke out in the wreckage, and in seconds what was left of the car was engulfed in flames. They had no chance to do anything for those people inside, who began screaming in pain from the encroaching fire. It was told to us kids, sitting at the time with adults at our apartment on Alice Street, that the firemen felt like screaming along with the victims, because their agony was as great....having to live with the fact they were forced to watch people die knowing their rescue efforts could not be successfully mounted in time. I could not, would not ever forget those words, and it was as if I had been a witness myself....it became that real for me. I knew some of the firemen. What a terrible experience for them to live with for the balance of their lives.....and they had seen many more gruesome situations; yet I am reminded that they had experienced thousands of other calls when they were able to make successful rescues and save lives.....save buildings from burning and ward of total catastrophe by their expert efforts. It was that bitter sweet patina of everyday life.
There were many times in my childhood, in Bracebridge, when like everyone else who appreciates the dynamic of life, when shock and sadness entered into one's heart and soul, and affected the interpretation of everything else for weeks and months. It was a community like all the rest. There were serious accounts of misadventures we listened intently to at dinner-time; reports, hearsay, gossip of unfortunate family circumstances, tales of business failures, marriage break-ups, a few affairs of the heart, crime, assaults and some less serious news about school mates (some from prominent families) caught for shoplifting or public drunkeness. As I got a little older there were numerous stories about those same chums getting caught with drugs and related items, smoking down at Bass Rock where we used to swim..... and where we'd get a real kick talking to hippies and draft dodgers, Americans trying to avoid the horrors of the Vietnam War by hinding out in the hinterland of Ontario.
The Hunt's Hill lads used to hang-out near the railway station on hot sumer afternoons, awaiting the coveted Toronto run, pondering whether this would be the day to jump a boxcar and head to the city for some fun. They came and went over those many years and we never jumped on rolling stock. We did however, get on boxcars in the rail yard and we met up with more than a few hobos heading down to the Jungle they kept in rotating locations just up the overgrown embankment from the Muskoka River.....where yes they did occasionally enjoy an invigorating bath in the moonlight.
If you sat by the rails for long enough you were sure to see some interesting stuff going on at the adjacent Albion Hotel that I think had a better history earlier in the century than it was gaining in the 1960's, by way of the patrons it kept. It wasn't uncommon at all to see a bouncer run a drunk patron's head into the door on the way out onto the tarmac.....which obviously spoke volumes about the misconduct inside. The guy would crawl around for a few moments, dust himself off, comb his hair, and shadow-box a little while giving a lecture to the bouncer, then long gone, about "just who do you think you are buddy, throwing me out like that......I'll show you a thing or two." Five minutes of composure-gathering later, he'd try to get back in that bar again......and we loved every moment of it. Sure as we bet, he'd coming flying out a little further the second time with the bouncer's arm on his shoulder and wasteband of the pants, and down he'd go in a lump of humanity. I've watched as many as three patrons bounced the same way minutes apart. It may not be the part of history that is seen worthy of ink these days (or even then) but by golly it happened, it was funny as hell, and I witnessed this social, cultural heritage close enough to smell the booze and hear their heads hitting the door on the way out.
Public drunkeness wasn't a rarity even in the earliest days of our community. We had a lot of logging types in this town before the turn of the century, as did Gravenhurst, and it imprinted pretty harshly on the local constables. The loggers coming from the camps were a force to be reckoned with, and being rowdy was just part of the rugged lifestyle garnered from an industry known for its dangers, demands for the utmost courage, and reckless abandon. Being trapped for long periods in the camp made the escape so much more desirable, and misadventure was normal course....and the lock-up showed the wear and tear on its hinges. As well, homesteaders here had no choice but to be a tough, unyielding, stubborn lot because failure here could mean a slow agonizing death due to starvation out on the homestead. Even if you lived in town you were unmistakably a pioneer in the north woods regardless of urban situation. To say we were hewn from a rough and tumble first citizenry, well, you'd be right. From the late 1850's Muskokans who wanted to remain here made sacrifices. There were disadvantages on top of disadvantages and many didn't make the cut....left the region for some other locale, or perished with dreams of a prosperous homestead still in their hearts. Some of my wife's family, during this pioneer period, were known as the Three Mile Lake Wolves, for their temperment, and with Irish glee they would join arms at one end of the main street, stretch across the width of the rough lane, and with as many as four hardy brawlers, beckon anyone tough enough to stand in their way as they marched toward the town falls. Legend? Nope! Fact!
In the following blogs, some that were formerly published in Curious; The Tourist Guide, I have provided an honest appraisal of what it meant to me, to be considered a local yocal......how it felt after many years of being transplanted from the city, and attached to this new hometown. As I had been a keen observer throughout my childhood, of what constituted the tally of daily life and times of any worthy hometown.....I didn't proceed as a writer/historian with any misconception or lack of appreciation for what history had etched in its wake......like the glacier grinding over the Canadian Shield. What I had seen and experienced......it was a critical background reference that gave me an exceptional insight. As a fledgling editor, having arrived back to my hometown, hoping to make a name for myself as an adult citizen, I knew in advance of my first published piece that it was going to be a precarious balance to represent fairly all the trials, tribulations, joys and sorrows, losses and victories.....and avoid at all cost, making it ever seem as if the local citizenry couldn't cope with any situation it was to face. Afterall it had survived the wickedly difficult pioneer economy, two wars, a Great Depression and a myriad of successes in businesses that went bust as did so many dreams. It has worn its discontent bravely and survived despite adversity....just like thousands of other good hometowns that realize that the definition of prosperity means being able to turn misfortune into advantage......picking up where one task was left off and finishing the job.
My own critics argue that I am too open with my opinions, and to glaring with the facts I present. In response I carry on with blatant disregard and contempt.......because I have never as a citizen, a newspaper editor, or historian come upon anything in the past or present, no matter what the weight of its negative revelation, that couldn't be handled by citizens at large and time. And afterall that's what makes a hometown.....well.....a "home", being able to move on despite. We are not immune to the dastardly circumstances......of crime, corruption, and malice....why would we be? It's all part of our history like it or not. As the earth continues to turn, resolution and restitution will occur just as it always has, and we will recover and rejoice all over again......but it is imprudent to forget how we got from there to here in 150 odd years. I'd like to believe we've learned something about our capabilities to survive against what is often considered insurmountable.
Here are some editorial pieces about my hometown I've composed in the past 12 months. You don't have to know much about Bracebridge, or anything at all about its past, to relate to the stories.....which for all intents and purposes could have been generated from your own hamlet, village, town or city. Please enjoy! The first one has a Christmas backdrop!
Respecting the spirits of Christmas past
My contemporaries in the community press sought out the editorship of The Herald-Gazette, in Bracebridge, because it seemed from an underling perspective, like a politically powerful and socially influential position. They had visions of world domination, I think, not simply the fair and unbiased representation of community life and events.
It afforded the chosen-one the very great and time-honored privilege, to occupy the creaking old chair behind the oak desk, the one with a deep patina of sweat and ink imprinted into the grain, attained honestly from the actuality of many milestones of local history. To be editor one had to be cognizant of all things past and present, yet be insightfully inspired, no less courageous, to willingly venture into the abyss of uncertainty down a dark and winding trail. Well, that’s a tad dramatic!
How many of those long adrenalin, emotion driven editorial races to deadline, were pounded into that oak desktop? Fist thumps onto its surface. "Let’s put this paper to bed!"
It was situated in the second biggest office in the century old building on Dominion Street, and it afforded the occupier thusly, the right to select or compose the lead editorials for the weekly edition. Not to mention having the responsibility to bark out orders to reporters and lay-out staff, about what was going to make the front page, and what copy would fill up the white space further back amongst the food store ads.
I wasn’t the youngest editor of The Herald-Gazette but possibly the youngest non-family member to take the helm of this established publication. It wasn’t the only paper serving the community, and in fact, when I was appointed to the editorship in the early 198 0’s, there was a fierce battle being waged between competing publishers to win over advertisers and attain the highest weekly readership.
I had apprenticed with a sister publication, The Beacon, in the Township of Georgian Bay, and felt a little out of my league when the publisher first offered me the editor’s job, in Bracebridge, when the former head honcho was transferred to another community newspaper. While scared out of my wits to take the helm of one of the District of Muskoka’s best known publications, I had achieved exactly what I had intended after returning home from studies at York University in Toronto. I wanted to be an editor with Muskoka Publications. It simply came about five years sooner than I had planned.
I didn’t care about the political weight of editorship and I had no intention of changing one molecule of the tradition established by George Boyer and family, who had built the newspaper’s foundation brick by brick decades before I’d even seen the first light of new life.
I used to work many late nights hunched over that gouged, pen-imprinted, gnarled old desktop during the first year of my multi-year tenure, feeling a huge sense of pride being able to maintain the HG’s print tradition, carrying on a legacy of fine writers, and powerful editorialists. I felt in awe to be truly ingrained then in the history of my community. At times I still felt like a punk kid running amuck in the neighborhood, like my rapscallion days growing up on Bracebridge’s east side as part of the Hunts Hill gang, a notoriously pacifist bunch of lads who were distinctly better hockeyists than pugilists. Here I was dictating the editorial content for a much closer, in-person history, and I was astounded by the faith of the publisher, Hugh Mackenzie, who allowed me the greatest of freedom to represent the good and bad of community life and times.
I can so clearly recall one rather poignant news-desk vigil, on a blustery night on the cusp of that year’s Christmas vacation. I had been at the helm about a half year and we’d just finished the special holiday edition of the paper that afternoon, and heartily consumed a few cartons of eggnog in celebration. There may have been a trace of rum stirred in as well. What a keenly wonderful moment it was that night, in the solace of an empty newsroom amidst the splendid haunts of this historic building, to feel that sense of connectedness to all the heritage of this Ontario community. All I had to do was walk two flights of stairs to the basement to connect with the physical archives representing well over a hundred years. The history of Bracebridge was right there in huge and bulky compilations overflowing shelves and tables. I was in awe to stand there and consume the legacy of which I was now a part.
While my staff colleagues had their opinion about my leadership, and my zeal for political power, they might have been quite confounded by the fact I actually was quite humbled by the position. I felt more unworthy than cocky, and there wasn’t a day that went by, when I didn’t think about my shortfalls and inexperience captaining such an important community asset. Yet there were moments, such as that particular pre-Christmas vigil, when I allowed myself the benefit of doubt, and thoroughly enjoyed the sensation of being editor of The Herald-Gazette….despite the misgivings that I was unworthy of the responsibilities bestowed.
When I walked away from the news building that evening, and looked back through the wind-driven snow, it was as if a manufactured, nostalgic old movie scene wrenched from the archives. It needed a sentimental last-word, a line Bogart might have uttered about time and place, event and remembrance, life of old, life anew, the end of one chapter, the beginning of a fresh new perspective. I may have even looked a little like Bogie, at that precise moment, my turned-up coat collar and askew hat adorned with snow, staring back at the history of only moments ago, yet pondering what the future might hold…..Christmas yet to be. And in that illumination of snow against nighfall, there was that sense of peace we dream of when all the world seems to make perfect sense, and we trundle joyfully through the winter night with great expectation. It was as if, at that moment, I was walking the same path as an editor from the 1920’s, or one winter’s eve during the Great Depression, or during the Second World War, our footfall being the same. All the years, all the events, all the memorable moments were imprinted here, and I was only too pleased to embrace it all….that year and for every year since, that I have been contently employed writing about my hometown and home region of Ontario.
In the coming year in Curious, The Tourist Guide, I would like to re-visit those roving reporter, editor’s desk days, and share some light-hearted, unusual, outrightly strange events that occurred during my years working for the local press here in the heart of Muskoka. I will introduce you to many colorful characters who made my many years in the print business so memorable and exciting.

Muskoka was what it was.....my home district and nothing else mattered
I've been a regional historian in these hinterland parts too long now to accept unfounded, poorly researched generalizations. There are times when I read some self-serving historical tome, and what the author presents as my home region of Ontario, is as foreign to me as if I had resided, for all those years, in any other district but this.....my own years of dedicated research, and actually living here for most of my life, apparently nothing more than a flutter of back-to-back silly and misleading dreams. There is a strange new arrogance settling-in, and I sense a profound distancing from the citizens' history of once, to the newly developing chronicles of the region's social, business and financial elite. While that has its place, the best of the best being depicted on a mural somewhere (I’ve only seen it once), I'm not sure the labours and good citizenry of the baker, train station clerk, bank teller, school teacher or waitress, amongst so many unsung heroes, will ever get the ink, even in overview, they surely deserve for contributing to the community's many accomplishments. It's not to deny the hustle and goodwill of the movers and shakers, who by their proficiency and leadership made things happen through political and economic fortitude.... but it will never, for this historian, be enough to dismiss, or minimize the components of the small but mighty engine that made community life and times, run so consistently through all the precarious ups and downs over these many decades.
One thing's for sure,.... I'm not going to lose my own reminiscences about the Muskoka I adore, and my hometown of Bracebridge, ......that offered me a splendid environs for an exciting young young life..... duly occupied as a wide-eyed kid drinking-in all that the 1960's and 70's had to offer....because I've preserved those memories in many, many penned vignettes, some that I will share in the course of these newly released blog submissions; but today despite an ongoing love for my former hometown, I no longer find the consistent, related and enduring parallels between the old days I studied, and the changing emphasis today on what is worthy of an historian's ink......I am a fierce defender of preserving, with the same sense of importance and priority, the humble celebrity-free reminiscences of the everyday folk, who raised families here, worked after hours with clubs and charitable organizations, coached, tied-up skates and drove players to out of town games always at their own expense.......and well made our neighborhoods memorable and strong..... and added so much to the local economy, and its diversification for so long. These lesser historical details, and hardworking citizens, without a shred of glitz or even one bold headline attached to their names, are no less important than tales of Mayor and Council's exploits and political milestones. These human attributes are important to me because it's exactly what I want my kids and grandkids to know about the unpretentious, unselfish, "one-for-The-Gipper" town where it all began. What I read about Bracebridge today makes me wonder what happened to the old one.....and what was so wrong with its century plus patina that its image needed to be replaced by an overkill of blatant new-century bolstering of ego-burdened "leader worship". Very little of what I read today about Bracebridge, seems to relate at all to the kind of hometown it was then in actuality.....and all the emphasis has been placed on the most prominent citizens, the political big wheels and the largest of large investors who apparently raised a town all on their own......and if ever there was an identifiable elite recognition peak in Bracebridge..... it is now. It seems to be a generalizing arrogance that has made clear distinctions that government is vastly more significant in every aspect of community life.....and that there really isn't any need to discuss anything else of a lesser prominence as being worthy social and cultural contributors. As I don't care for the way the community is being portrayed today, well, I'd like to share a few stories about the town I knew.....and it did have holes in its underwear so to speak but nobody really cared about shortfalls.....every rural town had deficiencies associated with hinterland living.....but from our perspective as former urban dwellers in Southern Ontario, our family was infinitely more concerned about enjoying the natural enhancements living in this beautiful district of Muskoka. We left the city because it was a city. And Bracebridge was a good and safe place to nurture and be nurtured.
As a preamble to this small collection of hometown chronicles, I must note that the above passage is a credible overview of my opinion of what my hometown has become in the past ten years. I was reminded of this when my mother Merle died in May 2008, and I spent a lot of time that spring thinking back about the town we moved to in the winter of 1966, the community we grew to adore, because of its general acceptance of commonplace and well being without any need for image pumping.....and what I perceive has changed about the neighborhoods we lived, played in, enjoyed road hockey games upon, and participated in oh so many adventures all the live long day. What I found has happened from then to now, is a clear and purposeful distortion of history to suit a purpose, accomplish some unspecified gain.......how Bracebridge actually advanced since the 1860's contrasts starkly the touched-up image promoted today in print, with chest-thumping boastfulness,.... an awkward distancing from the factual accounting of the bumps, bulges and worts we sported for a hell of a long time in this town, without ever being self conscious as a community. It's almost as if some are embarassed by certain aspects of our heritage and wish to conceal it.....and recognize only the most successful and proud moments of the past. It's not the historian's job to sanitize the facts but to present them in perspective...... the critical parts that make up the whole. I know the difference between the propaganda and image liberties taken, and what actually still exists of the old town and district ways and means....still modestly ticking-along beneath the sickly sweet icing the sculptors insist on applying for good looks etc., to meet all potential photo ops and media scrutiny. You know what happens to facades over time......they just decay away as they should.
What you won't find in local history cause...... well, it's not the history some like to promote!
Bracebridge has had a pretty normal run of luck. Same as all hamlets, villages and towns in the world! Some good, some bad. And it really hasn’t had any choice but to deal with it and move on, as they say. It has had its share of everyday nuisances and problems, a few substantial misadventures, impediments and disasters throughout its modest 150 years of settlement......., some record keepers arguing that it's infinitely better to let this contrary heritage bury in the sediment raised in the wake of accomplishment and advancement. Its unwritten record includes run-of-the mill jousting with problem prostitutes, die-hard boot-leggers, young and old drunkards, murderers, sundry other felons and frauds, and an assortment of bad neighbors who liked to whomp each other to settle property and family disputes. We even had an in-town neighborhood known by the perpetually derogatory title of "Nigger Hollow," allegedly named after the dark skinned employees who worked in the local tanneries and lived in the small homes on the south side of town .....still known today as "The Hollow." While it is absolute history that this name was used up to and including the 1960's by some folks, it has been avoided by most historians who should know better than to attempt to revise the past because of their own discomfort. What about those folks, the citizens who lived in that Hollow, and had to face that reference daily?
While there are many mentions of town disasters and set-backs faced by the community, there has been considerable sanitizing of history such that one might be shocked to know houses of ill-repute were a fact of life in this little town straddling the 45th parallel of latitude. The loggers knew about them and so did the tannery workers..... and so did the wives apparently, and the local constables did their best to remove them from the business community.....but they kept re-locating based on demand. Now while the purists are curling their lips in anger and outrage, and the hackles are raising, rest assured I know my stuff and I wouldn't offer you even the slightest mistruth to boost readership. But as I have argued with local historians for years, ignoring historical details because they're not particularly complimentary to the image desired of the "old hometown," doesn't make them go away....rather they're left for another day when some ambitious and dogged reporter-historical type decides to dig in an area where no other shovels have been imbedded. What then? Denial? Refusal to acknowledge the less than desirable aspects of historical record? Most towns have a unexplored heritage... stories about a goodly number of criminal types who some say "gave the town a black eye," because of their actions......and don’t warrant any kind of recognition. In my opinion the true dynamic of a history worth wearing, is that it does exhibit worts and blisters.....and that there is no way a hometown or city can truly come to terms with its past without taking into full account all the problems and obstacles overcome. Call it a worthiness to be anyone's home town, that it carries all its history, good or bad, an asset or a burden with the clear resolve....... that it has survived despite adversity and disadvantage, prejudice and bigotry onward to repair and restitution. When you read some of the "good times were had by all" histories from a lot of towns in our country, it's obvious there was an inherent and justifiable fear of bad reputation and its potential to hurt business.
Today however, we've come a long way in being able to consider faults and assets as a patina of community life, like it or not.....of course we haven't always done everything right for all these years. But would any one expect to advance 150 odd years without blemishes, failures, misadventures and catastrophes? Is it possible we can live in a town all these decades and be crime free? And while the truth about a lot of community news was censored and sanitized for a host of reasons, there wasn't a citizen old enough to vote who couldn't find the message between the lines, of any of these stories, or the ones curiously omitted, and know exactly the proportion and weight of editorial control over the public's right to know. It's still done today and we always know there's more to the story than what we're permitted to access. Some of this we accept. Then come the historians who don't particularly care if they step on toes, and what was buried is newly exhumed. Maybe we're shocked. Possibly not! Unfortunately much of this will take a lot longer to chip away because some overseers still believe any deviation away from accepted historical accounting will hurt a community. With honesty? Or the fact it was covered up for so many decades by people over-riding the public's right to know? But I had so much to learn. So much sensitivity to develop. So here I was a hometown kid, a keener historian looking to cut his teeth on some good local stuff, and an apprentice editor of the local press........that I may or may not have believed contributed to telling stories rounded at the edges. Boy was I in for discovery by immersion. I couldn't have been more advantaged, truth be known!
So here is a wee contradiction of sorts that I discovered from a self-imposed deep immersion......the wish to find out more about my hometown because at last I had a vested interest, the need to relate stories, and a desire to do so with accuracy to earn readers’ respect. I didn't understand any of this when I began as a newspaper editor back in the late 1970's, and on through the 1980's. I took over the task of editorship at a time when I was working feverishly as an historian, driven to find the truth and set it free.....to hell with the consequences. So what I am about to relate in a series of blogs is as much my own confessional......what I discovered about my community and what made me understand some of the protectionism, some of the reluctance to be entirely forthright because of anticipated dangers and consequences to largely unsuspecting families, who didn’t know quite everything about the activities of their ancestors. I suppose that makes me a part of a conspiracy to cover-up history. Thus the contradiction. Yes, there were many discoveries made pawing through local archives, news clippings, and documents, that would have startled the bejesus out of those who fear these kind of undertow revelations. I never turned away from even one of these accidental but important discoveries. And each one did influence my approach and my understanding of local heritage to this day. Serendipity is the way we historians advance our story-lines. One discovery leading to three other leads.
These blogs in preparation, will be sincere recollections about events, folks I knew, activities I got up to, and things I saw that were never, never meant for the public eye. Yet when they are all complete, and I feel that Bracebridge has been adequately overviewed and recalled from my own experiences, I think you'll find on the other side, a very real, honest and cherished portrayal of "Our Town,".......an amalgamation of so many characters, so many ambitions, happiness, sorrow, optimism, realism, content and discontent, all adding to the hue of patina I see when I cross the Silver Bridge on a misty spring morning, and look with affection upon the same main street as once, bustling as it always has, one full and busy day to the next. But there are no denying the ghosts of the past. I think immediately of the soldiers of the 122nd Muskoka Battalion marching down this street in preparation for overseas deployment in the First World War. The funeral processions that wound through these same streets with the victims of the great influenza outbreak after the war, and the day witnesses watched on this same street as an iron lung passed up Manitoba Street.....sending a ripple of mounting fear throughout the citizenry that there was a polio outbreak in Bracebridge. The parades. So many Santa Claus parades marched along this same corridor to the thunderous cheers of young and old. And it was the street my mother Merle used to love strolling, in modern history, taking my wee sons for their daily walk, to get their treat at the five to a dime store while I tended shop up the street. It was the mainstreet I used to hang around on Saturday mornings because it was an interesting place to people-watch.
As an apprentice historian/ editor, my mentor newspaper giant, Robert J. Boyer, led me to the downstairs archives in the former Herald-Gazette building, on Bracebridge's Dominion Street, where thousands of old newspapers were bound and stacked.....and he said.....while chomping down on his gnarled old cigar....."If you're interested in history....this should keep you busy for a few years."
In all my years working in his company Bob never once discouraged me from seeking out the facts of local history, or discussing something I wasn't sure about, or didn't quite appreciate the inherent sensitivity. While I was ruthless to begin with, and wanted to expose everything there was to exploit, Bob allowed me in on a few realities about what is known, what is truthful, and what is responsible representation and presentation of history. What he taught me was to learn and learn more, and never stop looking for the hinge to all else, while at the same time using that knowledge as a base of power;.... not just as a source for senseless and selfish exploitation. While I had been tutored by many well versed and accomplished historians during my university years in Toronto, Bob was by far the mentor who forced me to qualify and justify my facts like no other, and sculpt responsible opinions that could be steadfastly defended. I think Bob decided to make me a project and I'm glad he did. While we didn't always see eye to eye on all editorial conundrums, we generally found the way to compromise such that we both left a debate feeling respectfully successful. His was the wisdom garnered from decades of involvement in a newspaper industry, totally imbedded in all aspects of the community. Mine was the enthusiasm to consume as much of that knowledge as Bob was willing to lend, because I needed those critical insights and advisories to do my job properly. We did clash on occasion when I brought too much aggression and recklessness to the job;..... reflective of that cumbersome over-confidence of youth and inexperience. Yet he was the one gentleman I eagerly listened to because he was always honest and fair, and willing to infill what I was missing about the protocols of responsible journalism, and vulnerabilities of small town life and times. Bob never told me how to write or what to write about but he wasn’t shy pointing out important counterpoints....this from a man who had lived the history he wrote about. His sage advisories could never have been misconstrued as meddling or any attempt to censor what was clear fact. I only wish I'd told him of my sincere appreciation for his tutoring before we moved on with our lives and projects.
The recollections are all based in one way or another on the platform of history....rigorously exposed but not exploited to gain a readership. It was my resolve to know as much about local history as possible....all the details, all the suspicions investigated, all the muck kicked around and stepped through;.... not simply on the impetus and self-serving interests of a good story for a pay cheque but to genuinely possess a dimensional, all-sides considered foundation of undisputed knowledge. A base from which to build responsibly, with precision, as an historian devoted to public education. I'd rather know than not know.....and I've never censored out fact because it was an inconvenient truth. So the foundation of each story is solidly anchored on a wide and deep knowledge of all the events and milestones in my old hometown......but don't expect scandalous revelations for the sake of an audience. It doesn't mean I haven't been influenced by their occurrence at some point;....... just as I've been affected by so many other incredibly uplifting and inspirational events, and characters, I've been happily associated with over the decades. Hope you enjoy the small offering of hometown life as I knew it growing up in Bracebridge, Ontario, Canada, and as a former editor of Bracebridge's revered publication, The Herald-Gazette.
So what comes immediately to mind when I think back to those first years living up in the Weber apartments, up on Alice Street? Well, the cutting, rattling, invasive but always welcome train horn! Many times a day. The clickety-clack of trains pounding along the silver rails at 40 below and the unsettling, almost eerie stab of horn through the January night. I never really understood why we could hear it so clearly being situated quite a distance beyond and above the river-basin train station, just below the town's main street. I remember the wicked wind we had to endure crossing the Hunt's Hill bridge and the promises made to God to let us cross over without dieing.....in return for Christian behavior at home and school. When one of our mates fell for the allure of frosted-over ironworks, placing his tongue on the railing, what the hell else were we supposed to do but kick his arse and drop his pants?
I got beat up by local thugs, a family of miserable bastards and equally nasty cohorts, for stepping between the villains and my friend......who when freed ran home, leaving me to get whomped.... but good.... for my intrusive good nature. For this act of open defiance I was granted about two weeks of punch-outs, which damaged my jaw for life, and when school administration failed to act.....I pulled a "Shane" out of my hat, and hoofed the head thug in the nuts, rapping knuckles of both hands into the squishy, miserable faces of my pursuers. And bloody hell, I got hauled into the principal's office for fighting in the school yard. By golly, I took them with me and that felt real good. So I know what you're thinking.....this good fella is the same one who dropped a poor lad's pants, who had his tongue stuck to the railing of the bridge over the coldest river in the world. A balance of justice I suppose.
I loved school and enjoyed football games with Father Heffernan who used to organize lunch and recess matches on the sideyard of Bracebridge Public School.....our very own Father O'Malley (Bing Crosby - Going My Way and Bells of St. Mary’s). I loved to play road hockey up on Alice Street and over on Liddard and Aubrey Streets with school mates, and we played a thousand games of baseball and shinny on Frank and Ivy Henry's property behind the Hospital; and of course we biked a trillion miles around this district to swim and chase adventure.
I traversed the snowbound ribbon rails on winter nights, after walking my girlfriend Linda home, and I must have skated a thousand miles at the Bracebridge arena, holding her hand and dreaming of a future together. I sat on the bank at Bass Rock, our swimming hole on the Muskoka River, watching the hippies smoke dope, and nearly drowned in the bay when I tried to swim across with a friend....while holding my clothes in one hand above. I scraped my arse clean of skin when our soap box racer lost its wheels on Flynn's hill on Richard Street, and I got stomach aches that would pop your eyes, eating the little green apples we swiped off the trees that lined the neighborhood.
I can get sentimental to tears thinking back to Bamford's Corner Store and Black's Variety on Toronto Street, where I spent tens of thousands of cents buying black balls and pop, comics and Lucky Elephant Popcorn, and where most of my childhood was imprinted....the bum imprints we all left on the wooden stoop of Lil and Cec's (when Black's store was sold) on so many lengthy philsophical sojourns long into summer nights, when it was a meeting-spot for hot-rodders and neighborhood tough-guys. We loved them all because they were too cool to take their pop bottles back for the refund....and gladly dumped on us kids. I didn't have even one tiny image-issue cashing in someone else's pop bottle.
I played baseball at Jubilee Park, on the hottest summer afternoon's in history. Got stuck in left field but hit a few dingers in my day. Played a lot of hockey up at the James Street arena, and as a goaltender, never got equipment that actually protected my body parts......until that era's arena manager Tom Robinson helped me order my own equipment from a sporting goods catalogue they sent to his office. Got a decent reputation as an up and coming goalie until I tried out for the Junior C Bears and took one too many slapshots to the groin.....and when coach Danny Poland asked whether or not I was puck shy.....all I could do was nod 'cause I sure as hell couldn't speak due to the lower body pain.
I loved the Alice Street apartment where we lived because it was like a commune. Nobody shut their doors unless it was time to go to bed and it was a great sub-community in a kindly working-class neighborhood where everybody cared.......and one person's kid belonged to the street which was both good and bad depending on what kind of kid you happened to be! Residents on the street didn't show any reserve at all about phoning my mother to let her know of my latest, greatest exploit....which may have been the unlawful removal of ripe tomatoes from Gord Black's beautiful garden, or the swiping of a cooling pie from a window ledge that looked as if it had been made for me. I sort of remember removing the wheels from Seth Hillman's lawnmower so Al, Rick and I could get wheels for our hot rod.
I loved my mates and I never would have imagined a time or circumstance that would have pulled us apart. I could not have fathomed any circumstances except death to divide us.....when they would move away or marry outside the circle of friends we had been for decades. It was my own Peter Pan passion for the good times of childhood we all enjoyed growing up in Bracebridge, despite the knocks, bruises and misadventures. No, I didn't want to grow up. I didn't want to move away from Alice Street. And it's true that one day I would like to move back for the sake of so many ghosts with no one to organize them into a road hockey playoff. I didn't know anything about politics and I had no interest in social standing, and couldn't have cared-less about having any more money than it cost for a cold pop, a bag of chips to share with my mates, and maybe a small sack of black balls to get me through to the next dinner-time. I was naive, just as I am today, about preserving these precious memories......protecting the truths, the intimate details of what it truly meant belonging to a "hometown"......particularly what it meant to a transplanted city kid. Here are some of my fondest recollections of my early days in Bracebridge. They are all retold with the reverence I have for social history and hopefully provide a different perspective to other penned histories.....some I can relate to, others I can not.....many that I find flawless, others I find pretentious, pompous and misguided. They are honest and heartfelt attempts to tell it the way it was.....without any intent to alter, embellish or redefine history as it has all played out.
I’ve led an historian’s life. I live in a house jammed with histories of the world, work of great writers and profound philosophies penned by the most noted visionaries. I am comfortable with history. Glad I remained faithful to my profession despite setbacks....some anticipated, others quite unexpected yet understood. Sometimes I’ve had regrets. I’ve been shunned for what I know and the opinions I have expressed in the past. I’ve suffered retribution and it has at times been a lonely pre-occupation. Yet I cling to the belief that when I’m judged finally on the merit of content and responsible handling of history, I think what I have brought forth will be deemed balanced, honest and insightful to all who have a sincere interest in the promotion of heritage generally. As for pleasing all......I shall not lose any sleep if my adversaries continue to sharpen their claws for retaliation. I’m always prepared for a good and lengthy debate. Thank you for taking the time to read this introductory blog.....and please join me for more histories to come.

The Winter of My Life - Looking back at a long, long but memorable journey
It was on the cusp of Christmas, probably back in 1977, when I finally decided it was going to be entirely necessary to amalgamate interests and build a Frankenstein profession out of my mishmash of career interests. I studied to be a writer and I worked tirelessly to make my mark as an antique collector/dealer. I was a fledgling historian, an adequate researcher with improving skills, and when I landed my first writing gig with a local Muskoka publication, I embarked on a ten year swing at both reporting and editing for weekly and feature magazines. For decades I’ve been unable to decide which is number one and the order of importance for the rest of my lifelong passions....that sometimes even make money. As comedian John Candy once said, in his roll as a shower-curtain ring salesman, in the movie "Planes, Trains and Automobiles," "I’m still a million dollars short of being a millionaire!" But I’ve had a hell of a life just the same.
While I enjoyed my tenure as a news writer and didn’t mind that just about any profession going was earning more than I found in my pay packet, even as an editor, I knew that it would be impossible to ever cease my passion for composition regardless of the money situation. While I didn’t care too much for the hardships of being a writer, (just making rent with enough left over for a few pints of ale) I was always able to supplement my income over the hardest periods by knowing how to buy and sell antiques and collectables, particularly old books. I have often reminisced with my young lads today that I have had four oil lamp collections in my life up to and including this point. "What do you mean dad....where are the other three?" Well, you see, the one I have now which is quite substantial, (50 or more) is the result of a festering anger that on three previous occasions I had to sell off what lamps I had collected..... in order to eat during that particularly hard and cold month way back when. Or fix the car! Or something else that demanded a quick cash solution. I could always find a buyer for good quality vintage oil lamps. I’ve had to dip into this new semi-permanent collection twice, (and I hated to do it) parting with two beautiful blue and green glass lamps three years ago to....what else....pay for a car repair.
I’ve been able to survive as a writer because I had developed a knack for being able to uncover treasures at yard sales, flea markets, estate sales, auction sales, and find a fair number of what the trade calls "sleepers" (important vintage pieces under-priced) in Ontario antique shops.....and sell them for a modest profit to prop-up a "seldom if ever profitable" writing pre-occupation. It’s kind of funny actually thinking about the two careers, and the half dozen offshoot professions including museum curator (in two locations in Muskoka), that I’ve been involved in since 1977, the year I returned home to Bracebridge after graduating from York University with a degree in Canadian history. So here I was an aspiring historian, with a penchant for writing, who was taking twenty-five cents off every dollar earned as a reporter, and re-investing the money in antiques.....first using the old books I bought as research aids, and as a base for historical feature articles I was getting paid for.....then when finished, selling them off for a small but significant profit. Even my boys have borrowed this in their vintage guitar business here in Gravenhurst, making money off the instruments through rentals over a couple of years, and then selling them off to finance new and better guitars. I wouldn’t have lasted five years as a reporter if I hadn’t been able to use my knowledge of antiques to bolster the depleted coffers.
In retrospect, I needed all these jobs and out-riggers just to make a tiny but comfortable wage. But by golly what a fun life I’ve enjoyed having all these interests to fall back on in times of need....and when I got bored with being a writer for too many months in a row...or attending many, many auction sales and toting those awkward and heavy purchases down rutted farm lanes to a car parked too far away.....there was always a gainful alternative to resort to for a few weeks or months. Today it’s becoming increasingly necessary to have career alternatives from the get-go that are practical and adaptable at a moment’s notice. The days of one career from beginning to end are over and those who can quickly adapt to new opportunities in diverse career fields, will be living comfortably in the future. Unless you’re a writer. But then you’ll feel that the hardships endured are just the patina of the soul, enriched by the ups and downs of the creative process,..... the learning curve of experiences survived....."doing without" being at the forefront. I guess in some ways I was ahead of my time but I never thought of myself as a trend setter. I did have this cartoonish image of myself in those early days, clinging onto the edge of the modern world with red finger-tips and white knuckles, afraid to climb up and over because of what was on the other side, and just as scared to look down at what I might fall upon if my grip failed. Yet I knew that there was a future for us "clingers to existence," and while I never fell all the way to the bottom (close though), it did become relevant in time to move about and experiment with this clinging-thing.
Limbo wasn’t for me for the long-term, so I made diverse plans and by and large they succeeded. I did eventually overcome my fear of what dangers lurked below and beyond......and did become more adventurous and desirous for discovery as my confidence began to build. I know a lot of folks stuck in this position......especially when a job they thought was theirs for life was suddenly and unexpectedly gone. I always anticipated problems. It was my strength. I could pretty much tell the time and day I was going to tell the publisher to stuff the job. So I learned early to have a strong plan "B" and even "C".
The antique business is not for the faint hearted in either the physical or emotional sense. You’ve got to be a gambler, a high roller, the possessor of great wisdom and knowledge about a trillion vintage items you might well run into in one good weekend out on the hustings. If you’re short on knowledge (and courage to take a chance) about good art, well, you might pass up a major Canadian painting just because you declined to spend fifty bucks for an oil on masonite landscape.....could you pass on a Group of Seven because you’re cheap? Sure! I get some of my best finds courtesy people who hit the sale first and refused to pay fifty bucks for a several thousand dollar painting. (The stories of missed opportunities are weighty) I have on occasion purchased a fifty dollar art piece only to find out it was a copy of a good painting (worth pennies for the board only)......and thus the adventure of trying to improve your odds of success based on knowledge and experience. My odds are certainly better and my finds more substantial. But truth is, it’s much easier to sit at this keyboard and make these notations, than to stand at an auction for seven hours, or travel three hundred miles on a weekend, to maybe purchase three or four antique pieces. It’s the reason I’m glad I have this convergence of interests and the will to stop antiquing for awhile in order to work on a writing project for a month or so. When I do get back in the saddle to commence my collecting rounds, I’m refreshed and restored to a collector’s mission.....seek, forage, and discover.....possibly the holy grail if its somewhere on my rounds.
I’m going to spend the winter months here at Birch Hollow pursuing a number of editorial projects I’ve been putting off for the past year. I’m working on a special long-term series about collecting and the semi-amazing adventures hunting for old paintings, books, documents, furniture and anything else of a significant vintage attraction......"What for?" you ask. Well it will be offered to my friends at "Curious, The Tourist Guide," for the 2009 and 2010 issues....and will not only explore some of my own exceptional finds but offer some advice for hobbyists and fledgling collectors, on how to do better on a budget. Seeing as the economy isn’t all that robust anymore, and investing in the stock market and real estate is kind of precarious these days, I have a hunch my antique collecting friends will know exactly where to place their mad money......still after all these years buying low with the intent of one day selling high. Finding my oil lamps for good prices allowed me to net a substantial profit at a time I needed it most. From experience I do know what I’m writing about. I’m not all that proud that I had to sell so many fine pieces off but it was the price to pay for being a writer at the same time as an antique collector. Thank goodness I had one to support the other. It’s worked pretty well over the past three decades.....and I’ve enjoyed all the variations and diversions along the way.
It will not be a column for the rich and famous but they’re invited to read along as well. It will be a collection of feature articles for those who simply love travel, are willing to answer the call of the open road when the mood presents......appreciate the value and quality of old stuff, history, culture, simpler times, and the opportunity to meet some fine folks doing the same thing as you. I was a pauper who found enough coppers to get into the antique trade at the lowest level possible.....I started by digging for old bottles, and my first major purchases were old sealer jars which I adored. I moved up to oil lamps because of a love for old glass. I had to settle back then for lamps that need restoration. I’ve always had a good work ethic that way, and I can tell you there is nothing as satisfying as restoring a lamp and then enjoying its warm golden glow on an old sideboard or pine harvest table on a mid winter’s eve. This will be a collection for the poor sod who doesn’t have deep pockets but has instead a lot of raw enthusiasm for the hunt. The hunt has always been the attraction anyway.....and even with a van full of finds, I’m always a little sad when an adventure ends up in the driveway of home. There’s a pleasing aura of it all,...... it has been a good day with a partner (my wife Suzanne), and the experiences making new contacts, meeting up with old friends and dealers, and stopping awhile in this great province just to enjoy the view. I can’t tell you how many roadside picnics we’ve enjoyed in some of the most pastoral, enchanting, scenic places in this amazing hinterland. So yes, there’s much more to antiquing than the hunt and companion purchases. Getting there and back is pretty incredible.....remarkable in fact!
The first issue of this new antique and collecting series will run in Curious, The Tourist Guide beginning in February 2009.
Have a great holiday season. With kindest regards. The Currie family of Birch Hollow.

Merry Christmas, have a wonderful New Year and best wishes from Birch Hollow
Christmas has always been an enchanted time of the year for this writer, and the winter has always been an inspiring season in which to compose. In my earlier newspaper days, I would set about to research and write the coming summer season copy for The Muskoka Sun, by early December, and for the first week of January I was into full production mode. Each year I produced between two and four major feature series which could run part of a summer season or extend from the 24th of May until Thanksgiving which meant about 24 weighty chapters. I worked at home the first years, in the late 1980's, because I had assumed by economic necessity, the role of "Mr. Mom," looking after our first son Andrew and then Robert at the onset of the 1990's. I welcomed being a writer-in-residence after a high stress ten year haul hustling copy from an over-crowded newsroom. My wife was able to return to her teaching job shortly after the birth of both lads and my home office was officially open between diaper changes and feeding....playtime at the park and bedlam at home. I learned quickly how to work amidst the chaos and as far as output I never received one complaint about quality or quantity from the publisher when it was time to haul the manuscripts up to The Herald-Gazette office on Bracebridge’s Dominion Street. While I made the publisher smile it made the typesetter nuts in this pre home-cumputer situation. I wore out a lot of typesetters in my day.
I had a nice neighborhood view in those years from our small brick home on lower Ontario Street just below the High School, where my wife taught in those days. It didn’t matter what time of year it was....the humble little abode was settled amidst trees and history and it was only a short jaunt down a small path from our backyard, ........ to the secondary school playing field, which offered a massive area for Andrew to run with our dog Alf. Second son Robert came several years later after we had moved to a similarly charming little homestead on Golden Beach Road near Bowyer’s Beach, on Lake Muskoka. This was also a fabulous retreat for any writer, being surrounded by a splendidly encroaching Muskoka woodland.
So here I am 22 years later, still pounding out the editorial copy, for a few still-loyal readers after all these decades, and yes, still acting as house-father and honorary "Roadie" for my lads’ music business here in Gravenhurst. Tonight for example, is the annual Christmas Variety Show for their guitar and drum students....and many talented musician friends at the Gravenhurst Opera House, a fundraiser for the local Salvation Army Food Bank. While some things have obviously changed over the years.....well, fundamentally things have remained family-themed.....whatever they get up to....we join in support....and they do the same when we find ourselves with an unruly project. While we have our critics out there....the "Who do you think they are" kind of naysayers....it hasn’t daunted us from our Walton-like commitment to help each other navigate the tricky turns and long hauls of life. Of this connection I am grateful and proud.
I have set aside much more time this year to pursue many other writing opportunities now that several other community projects have been successfully although reluctantly concluded. This year I plan on spending more time in composition and an equal share of time to be spent out on the antique hustings which has always been this writer’s best outlet.....to release the frustration built up trying to wordsmith my way out of a trillion log jams at this computer keyboard. You know it seems like ancient history when the keyboard I was tapping at, was an old beat up Underwood that weighed more than the Queen Mary’s anchor. I might finish a column at this keyboard and feel tired from sitting so long. In those days I finished a writing jag with black fingers......because I always had to adjust the ribbon, and physically exhausted from both repairs, adjustments and the energy needed to heavily impact those metal keys through the inkless ribbon and onto the white paper in the roll.....and then there were the "white-out" missions. Ah, those were the days.
I’m looking forward to this winter season holed-up in beautiful Muskoka which by early storms would suggest a long and evil period of snow, ice and bitter cold. For output, a long and cold winter will keep me at this keyboard on most days. A nice mild winter might have me spending many more hours wandering through the woodlands like the lost bard, here in the snow-laden haunts of dear old Birch Hollow.
Our family would like to extend Season’s Greetings to one and all, and trust you will enjoy a Happy and fulfilling New Year. Amidst all the turmoil surrounding us, the bad news on the economy and the many conflicts throughout the world.....it is the time of contemplation and restoration of faith, and a rekindling of goodwill and commitment to the cause of Peace on Earth. Have a safe and very Merry Christmas.

Recession at least provides a hiatus for Muskoka's hinterland
There are thousands of arguments bandied about today, expounding all the live long day why Muskoka needs greater and more diversified economic development. I agree. As a long serving editor and columnist with the Muskoka media, I have always supported the commission to attract more business and industrial investment to the district. So before I'm whacked with the critique that I'm anti-development and unCanadian, it just isn't so. Sensible proportion and the right location are two of my most debated issues for Muskoka's hinterland survival. I won't support development that diminishes our natural assets which fuel our historic and number one industry....tourism. And it's true I'm a big quality-of-life nut, and I live in the rural area of the province because of the embrace of hinterland a short distance in any direction from my front door. I do want my sons and their eventual families to live, work and prosper in our region, so it is without question that I am reverent and adaptable to the necessary change to make opportunities more abundant. While it might read as a contradiction of wants and values, it really has more to do with being careful about what is being attracted to Muskoka, and that progress continue to be in the best long term interests of the environment. I have to remind untutored revisionists today that no matter what numbers you crunch and philosophies sculpted to promote an agenda, truth is undeniable.....our tourist and second home-owner economy is number one in 2008-9 as it was more than a hundred years ago. If we become less desirable as a vacation escape from the urban jungle, we will lose thunderously more earnings than we're experiencing now sparring with the present Bear market.
Although there were a lot fewer folks back in the 1870's, to offer arguments, it was pretty obvious to the pioneer businessman that commerce would improve as opportunities increased. As the historians could explain in great and even burdensome volumes, there have been arguments for economic expansion since the first homestead shanty here in Muskoka.....as elsewhere, when capitalism starts its initial exploratory unfurling.....onward toward the "demand-monster" with the insatiable appetite for more and more and more.
I get a kick out of the poiliticians here who speak in such broad terms about economic development, as if they're the only ones who have ever hoisted and marched forward with that goodwill banner. Every decade in Muskoka's history has produced the glad-handers trying to hustle business opportunity. Some decades and personal efforts have fared better than others. There's simply no end result to the pursuit of economic development. Every modern day controversial development that has had to contend with opposition, draws on the "economic development" heartstring because proponents know it's a motherhood-family issue to keep sons and daughters employed at home. It's hard to argue against a project or development, when some families you know are struggling with unemployment. But there will always be unemployed citizens even in boom times. In the past 20 years particularly "economic development" has been both a boon and a boondogle. Folks selling the virtues of a crappy project on the basis it will create economic opportunity. Then the construction company brings in workers from everywhere else in the province, versus hiring locally because we don't have the skilled labour force they require. It is why they hire key staff as well from outside the area to manage the projects. While there is still hale and hardy economic spin-off having anybody reside, even temporarily in our district, the sales pitches are wild in their estimation of just how well we Muskokans will do, if we buy into selling off the hinterland to the new vested interest.
In Muskoka we have been ripe for the picking and a lot of developers know this all too well. We have bought into a lot of magic potion cure-alls recently about this need to accomodate growth.....and that without new and improved commercial investment, we will whither and become irrelevant. Listening to the developers and their shills is like standing in front of the steam belching, light flashing, roaring old contraption that made the Wizard of Oz seem so frightening and sage with his warnings. Take away the bluster and you've got just another plan to make money....some more grandiose than others but always with the advisory that our community's well being rests on a positive outcome when council finally casts their vote. Most of the time this is done without nary a soul wondering silently or aloud, whether it is actually true or a manufactured hollogram of an imaginary situation; what if we said no, and decided to be twice as prudent about compromising our natural assets....would the world really come crashing down? Is there any truth that we can only survive as a community and a region, if we prostitute ourselves for every last development dime. To hell with the environment. We like the really big show! The forests? Hell, you can plant a new one. Wetlands? Let's make crappy land into better land by draining and infilling.
The problem in the District of Muskoka for people of my ilk, who prefer development on a sensible, manageable, sustainable level, is that local politicians are simply too eager to accept development in the name of progress without truly appreciating the consequences to be faced in the future. While the City of Toronto is facing an amazing array of crime situations, pollution, traffic congestion, infra-structure dilemmas, and congestion issues constantly, we know this to be the acceptable carnage that comes with a region's economic engine.....yet they want more and more and more without fixing what needs to be fixed.....what needs to be improved about humanity's rights and privileges here in this vast Dominion. It's the glorification of city life which makes its way to the hinterland and what used to be a city dweller's retreat, is becoming an arm of the urban scene itself. We are becoming a suburb here in Muskoka and our proximity to Barrie and Toronto is now pounding the crap out of our open spaces. What could we have done about it? First of all, the glad handers in local politics over the past ten years, simply couldn't believe all the good fortune in economic development. The box store influx. What could be wrong with this? Give us more and we will be great! Or something as ill thought out!
Acceptance has meant an opening gate for everything else that looks good on paper, and steadily rings the municipal coffers. But the double edge sword is that old saying....you've got to spend money to make money. As the District deficit attests, there's a big price attached to progress. What could we really afford? What have we over-spent? Do we still have the magic means? No! Just the defecit for a long time to come. But has it been responsible for the citizens of Muskoka who have a great appreciation for their forested/lakeland situation. There's a lot of opposition, a large number of naysayers....but unfortunately the will to fight every project the municipality tells us is good for what ails us.....well, we would be fighting constantly. And when you do this, believe me, the "yes" side of everything progressive and greed-laden, can do a lot to trip you up.....the community boycott. I've been at the heart of many protests against development, and I'm quite familiar with the blackballing protocol. As an old reporter for the Muskoka media, I've never given up on investigative practice and I know full well those who are pulling the strings locally and how they get even with trouble-makers who force projects to the Ontario Municipal Board. Let's just say opportunities kind of dry up as the word gets around that "oh, oh, it's that Currie again......you know what to do now......show him why it's not nice to object." Many citizens who have done so....and got involved with protests against specific large-scale projects have faced various forms of intimidation and disrespect, and many knowing this potential outcome, and needing jobs and their businesses to succeed, simply retreat knowing this to be the politics of a small town.
I have heard so much bullcrap over the past five years about the need for more urban and regional economic expansion. When you confront, for example, someone with a vested interest in real estate locally, by suggesting hundreds of new houses have been built on spec....by speculators, and speculating developers,....the mood turns real chilly fast. If you ask local politicians if there has been any significant speculation here by developers in the past half decade, and the defence commences. "What speculation? Where? Not here? Not in Muskoka. Every house built here is to fulfill a housing need, they argue. Okay, call it what you want but the truth is Muskoka is being consumed by speculation......not by the opening up of business as such but the fact that sprawling subdivisions are plain and simply unnecessary to support the local population now and for quite a few years into the future. But the operative phrase here is "Build it and they will come. From Toronto, Belleville, Oakville etc. etc. So they have, and then some. Now take away those folks who bought a second and third house as an investment in their own community. Take away the folks who have bought these homes for summer only, retiring south from three to six months each year. Consider how many are used as rental income properties until the market strikes upward and they can sell for a huge profit. Hey this is just capitalism in a hale and hardy democracy fulfilling the plan. Accept this darn old near recession situation where houses are selling less per month for lower prices, with an inventory of many months of dust-gathering listings. So did we build too many houses? You certainly won't here that from a local politician unless a reporter asked for a comment off-the-record.
The problem is that local elected officials operate in the "now" largely and as far as being visionary, well, that's not their strong point. There isn't a thirty something person in this region who should be surprised by the economic downturn. There shouldn't be an elected representative in these parts who couldn't have recognized the signs.....so just how high can real estate prices go......before something was going to pop. With an high number of economically challenged citizens from the get-go, and food banks needing all the support they can get to tend the hungry, here we were so proud of the escalation of property values.....and many got so pumped they bet the farm and the homestead that what goes up never comes down. Stunned! Our leaders should have known better and looked at the projects on the books, and in the field, and thought about the catastrophe that could unfold......if developers offer big incentives on new houses while poor bastards who have lost their jobs and futures here, have to sell their homes just to survive. New home clear out versus necessary liquidation in order for a family's economic survival. I know, it's free enterprise right? Survival of the fittest and the most wiley. Just consider for a moment that you have to sell your lived-in house to fend off the bank's interest in repossession. Do you stand even the smallest chance of selling when a new home, for a few thousand more, is being offered with warranty and other incentives.
These huge residential expansions, from condos to single family units, are seen as outstanding improvements to our way of life and enhancements toward the future. This may be so. We know expansion is necessary as the population does increase. Yet there is a burden of responsibility, as a driver knowing when to signal, when to break, when to put on lights, and when to slow down on icy roadways. It's no different for municipal governance operating this region of ours. They needed to be cautionary when they began their open door policy of development. They needed to know just what a consequence was, and how to minimize impact. These same folks who put the pedal to the metal are now facing a serious reckoning with all of us constituents, who are starting to see the flaws of accepting too much too soon, without adequate reservation about what can and will topple under the right stresses. And you can make comment about hindsight being 20/20 but in fact, it doesn't apply here, because these folks knew all too well what was lurking around the corner. Economic cycle. They should have had a clear understanding about the recession of the late 1980's and early 90's. It's not distant history it's relevant historical fact that should have been applied here, to ensure that if a recession was to hit, a bear market at the very least, and it was overdue.....how to you ensure a safe balance of interests.....a sensible debt load....and a workable number of options to fall back on in case things started to fall apart. With the massive debt load of this region, you bet we're in trouble at this time of the economic downturn.....and there isn't a municipal councillor in Muskoka who shouldn't be deeply concerned about the future well being of their region.....and being able to meet its demands over the next gruelling decade.
Short sightedness. Greed. Stupidity. There are many descriptions to borrow, to deal with the glad-handers of our region who have perpetuated a dangerous situation, of economic tight-roping.....an urban expansion that would put at risk, at a most vulnerable time, mainstreets still trying to cope with decentralizing business strategies begun in the 1970's. In Bracebridge it is anybody's guess how the pods of commerce will fare in an economic down-turn but there are a few experts out there.....namely the business people on the front line who have already begun preparing for the new reality....hoping to survive the new economic deficiencies in an already stressed business environment.
If local government leaders had employed the smallest amount of wisdom, which comes from life experiences, they would have been pumelling the respective mayors about budget restraint, seeking a development hiatus, to allow for the storm to hit and pass. It's just logical. If a storm is coming, take precaution. We tell our kids to use caution. Be careful crossing the street. Don't take rides with strangers! Don't do anything stupid. Yet, when it comes to caution and the public good, all of a sudden it becomes a non issue. "Naw, it'll be okay....you'll see."
The problem here is that there are too many advisors locally with vested interests. People who should not be so close to councillors and mayors who are free-wheeling with their economic visions. We don't need the local arm twisters and ceaselessly progressives, the lobbyists who are in it for the virtues of expansion, under the guise of "it's be so great for the community." What if they're wrong? We'll see! Soon.
I'm deeply concerned about the small business community here, and the hard working citizenry who will suffer the consequences of less responsible government......elected officials who have voted in favor of urban expansion on the grounds it is always good and positive to have economic expansion. Well, that's not true. With each expansionary wave there are consequences of accepting the urban culture.....thrust for capitalist folly on the good folks who have made this beautiful part of Muskoka home for decades. It has been at their expense. It's hard not to get upset, as a regional historian, to see how and know why we have been mauled by progress.....such that investors from Southern Ontario can turn their accustomed profit, and then try to figure out how the locals can be influenced yet again, to buy into the snake oil fix-all.
Muskoka's number one industry is tourism. It has been this way from the late 1800's. What are we doing to make tourism better and more prosperous in the future? Apparently, we have opted to build more residential neighborhoods and commercial nodes. Does this help tourism? Not really but try extracting a wee bit of logic from town hall.
For the next two years of their municipal terms, the present herd of elected officials will see the results of their handiwork......and wish they had employed a somewhat more conservative, sensible approach to accepting so much, so quickly, without fearing the "kid locked in the candy shop" syndrome of over-feeding on a good thing. We warned them. Many citizens saw the potential dangers of over-development and commercial node planning but we were the bastard "critics" of the good life. I guess this is what it comes down to after all the expended debate....what makes a good life in a good community.......abundant commerce, hundreds of thousands of neighbors, no wild animals to worry about; no bears, deer, ever-pooping birds and other annoying wildlife. Just tarmac and more tarmac and traffic lights at every intersection, and oh so many shopping opportunities.
I will validate this with one question, and hopefully an answer from a critic........."When will economic development be enough to satisfy everyone?" "When will a councillor(s) stand up and say.....'by Gum Mr. Mayor, we have finally achieved an economic balance that can't be bettered!" There is no possibility of this being achieved because it is a timeless excuse to seek more.....and who doesn't want more?"
In the meantime, don't let these elected officials who have accepted development over and above sensible proportion, off the hook. And when they fall back on that nasty old Bear market as the culprit.....let them know that bear or bull, there's always a consequence for making precarious investments. And speak up when they brush off the calamity of failed businesses by referring to the survival of the fittest.....because even the most fit amongst us, is weakened by reckless expansion of commercial pods.....and it is almost always the case the mainstreet takes one for the Gipper.
I love Muskoka. I love the hinterland way of life. What has happened here in the past decade has been anything but positive to the development of Muskoka's recreation industry.......already in the grasp of a serious, unabated decline.
-30-

Newspaper days were good, blogging is better
I have been writing an editor's retrospective feature column for the past few months, for a swell publication in Ontario, known as "Curious: The Tourist Guide." By the way, of the 20 or so publications I've written for since 1979, I have enjoyed my lengthy tenure with these fine folks.....who are truly generous with editorial space and always open to new feature ideas. The column has been about my days working in the editorial department of a weekly newspaper formerly known as The Herald-Gazette, in Bracebridge, Ontario. I began as a cub reporter at a sister publication known as the Georgian-Bay/Muskoka Lakes Beacon, then published from the community of MacTier, south of Parry Sound. In the early 1980's I moved over to the news editor's position of The Herald-Gazette, and then on to full editorship, which included management positions with The Muskoka Advance, and The Muskoka Sun, a popular summer time publication.
From 1979 to 1989 belonging to Muskoka Publications, here in the hinterland, was an aspiring writer's dream come true. After graduating from York University my girlfriend, at the time, wanted me to accept a job in the downtown Toronto area. I lasted in an office job exactly one half of one day. I couldn't do it! I came home to Muskoka, opened up my first antique shop in Bracebridge, known as Old Mill, and as most collectable dealers need (other than a rich partner), I looked for a supporting job to cover my extravagances. So I landed a job as a cub reporter for a small publication serving the Georgian Bay - Muskoka Lakes region. My parents took turns running the shop while I was at work. It was a business that would be closed after a short run simply because I got more gigs writing than I had expected and simply couldn't devote the time to hunting, gathering and refinishing the antiques I needed to stock the shop. It would be in the late 1980's that I opened another shop known as Birch Hollow Antiques, still chugging away today, with my wife Suzanne at the helm.
I worked at these sister publications until management decided my irreverance and failure to worship them with full heart and soul, meant I was no longer committed to their editorial plan. Well as you may detect sarcasm, it was true that I was irreverent to a fault and I offer no apology. I just didn't agree with their management decisions and I simply couldn't deal with the way I was being minimized as a writer. I was a journeyman writer who could compose a story quickly, efficiently, accurately and responsibly.....and that guaranteed the publisher wasn't going to face a lawsuit because of my reporting shortfalls. As for editiorial excellence, well, very few of us can be excellent about our tasks all the time but whenever I was putting material together for public consumption, I didn't cut corners or offer-up crappy copy juist to meet deadline. A few of the publishers I worked for had changes they wanted to implement and they knew, rightly so, that I wasn't going to be shaped by anyone or any wild and whacky editorial scheme they thought would be the next money maker. They knew in advance I'd probably try to dump their initiative on a rookie staffer who was still by industry standards a "keener," and didn't know when to duck the pitch! I wasn't adverse to negotation but I didn't dance on command....and if I sensed at any time an editorial project was being headed up by the advertising department....well by golly, I did everything to miss the opportunity entirely. I could be invisible fast when I saw the briefcase-toting ad sales manager coming up the stairs toward my office. I hated ad-supporting feature stories but I loved the news beat.
My tenure at the helm of The Herald-Gazette was a cherished time.....I loved to go to work each morning, and the fact I had some fine colleagues who mentored me constantly with sage advice, it was better than having spent tens of thousands of dollars in a university journalism course......this was immersion at its most precarious. Every word we put out there to the public could have meant a lawsuit, a firing, a reprimand.....and statements from the publisher like, "you'll never work in this business again." Being responsible and honest about the job was mandatory if you wanted to stick around. One miscue was all it took to be dumped. I had an amazing ten years in the day to day operation of a community newspaper and for the most part it was a hoot. Even the difficult moments with management non-confidence, and incredibly draining press nights into the wee hours, political run-arounds and smoke and mirror games with news sources, we never hoisted those frosty mugs of draft at the local watering-hole, (after the paper was put to bed), that we didn't feel it was all worth the battlefield of landmine-navigation.
When I was unceremoniously forced from the paper with a drastic reduction of hours, which I assume they knew would force me to seek employment elsewhere, I lobbed myself unceremoniously over to the competing publication, which ended badly a half year later. I needed a break from being an employee. Did I mention I got kicked out of Cubs as a kid for insubordination. How many can say that? For a number of years I reverted to my old standby, as an antique dealer, and we ran a successful small shop on upper Manitoba Street, in Bracebridge, with my business partner-bride Suzanne. This new antique business was called Birch Hollow which we still operate online today. This is when I began writing a freelance piece (I didn't ask for any remuneration) in the Muskoka Advance, a weekly Sunday paper, called "Sketches of Historic Muskoka." Following this was a huge and prolific period of demand when I was researching and writing dozens of features for The Muskoka Sun each winter, from first snowfall to first lilac bloom. I wasn't doing it for the money. I just enjoyed writing and selling antiques. Not very complicated. I needed my antique business for profit but writing was for the good of an ever-questing artistic soul. Eventually however, management decided to impose a few controls on this seasoned, gnarled, curmudgeon of a writer, and once again I said, well, (amongst other things about what they should bite)..... stuff it! I had no shortage of publications that wanted my contributions but I determined in this universe-reaching new century that it was time to make my antique obsession turn over an occasional profit. It's a problem of all dealers.....we like to spend and that doesn't always balance with what we earn....but we're surrounded by a lot of neat old stuff with potential.
I remember telling a boss once, in a heated debate, that I didn't take the editor's job because of any prestige, or for that matter because it offered a great wage. It sucked. I was in it because of writing, and even as editor, to fill the big hulking white spaces between the ads, I often composed seven to ten articles and more each week. It was a co-operative newsroom task that by necessity demanded lots of editorial submissions. The ads were husky and plentiful back then and demanded a substantial amount of copy each edition. I've had a lot of publishers and managerial overseers snear at this comment, when I'd tell them quite bluntly....."you think I put up with you guys just for the meagre beer money stipend? I write because I love to.....that's it.....and I'll take the few thin dimes you pay me and buy a new typewriter ribbon....why...because I love writing so much." I wasn't fooling. They just didn't get it. I was the most productive writer they had but they couldn't deal with any one saying they loved their job. And over the years they did everything they could to make me hate it. It just didn't work. Sure I've been wounded a tad but not enough to detract from an enterprise that gives me a great deal of satisfaction.
I was thrilled to be able to spend a day writing. Just writing. No distractions, no banging-door meetings, no intrusions.....just writing. It has taken many decades to find comfort amidst solitude. There was a time when I needed a constant din to feel as if I was in the ball-game. Back then there were always intrusions, always distractions, and there weren't many days when management calmed to satisfaction with anything. We were required to attend lively meetings to trim up the troops. I loved it when they tried to motivate us! We were self-motivating..... period! I almost clobbered a new managing editor at one meeting when he told the writing staff he was going to "nurture us like flowers in a pot." From that point I hated the guy and he knew it. I told him in no uncertain terms that if he ever said that to me again, I would embarass him beyond recovery. Funny thing was, this was the goof who had to break it to me....with a smile only a belt sander could have removed, that I was being cut down in hours to status of a part-timer, after a decade's service to the publication. As a former baseball player in regional fastball, I knew some pretty incredible hand signals, and I gave him all of them in a magical sequence mixed with some of my own invention.....and a few other rude ones. I refused the part-time offering needless to say. Best thing I ever did! I actually started to make money in my freelance approach, and I was able to concentrate our antique business beyond the storefront and into e-commerce, which we still pursue now with steady results. The only jerk I answer to these days is the one writing this blog. My wife is the accountant. As long as I turn a profit she has no reason to order a staff meeting.
When we closed our antique shop in Bracebridge in the mid 1990's, moving it to our Gravenhurst home, and I began a different approach to writing, having a much higher standard of who I'd work with and for, my home office with computer became a nurturing, resource laden, inspiration oozing paradise. I could write for hours on end and never have one urgent request for my attendance at a disciplinary meeting. I was able to run my antique business on-line and world wide, and my writing enterprise, geez, I was free at last. I could write at any time of the day or night and not have calls and frequent, annoying raps on my door intrude upon the story-line. Sure there was the household din sometimes, because I was a Mister Mum to my two lads Andrew and Robert (looked after them while my wife went back to her teaching job), yet surprisingly, I seemed to write more and better with the voices of the lads playing in the other rooms. They play guitars now and have a music store here in Gravenhurst......their replacement noise being the play of three cats and a dog, snoring, growling, shreiking with the timely, regular interuptions..... maybe an occasional nuzzle, when they've determined its feeding time at the zoo. I miss the boys but these critters are good company. It's sort of a passive news room.....they don't bark commands and get in my face, or bloody hell, ask me to stop my work mid paragraph to take a used car photo for the advertising department. I hated that with a passion.
I don't think I could ever go back to that time in my life, where I had to listen to my alleged superiors, tell me how and what to write. Since I began writing in the mid 1970's as a struggling poet/author at York University, I have never had a period when I couldn't find a willing publication or media outlet interested in a freelance piece. And to this point in my life, it's pretty much the same although everyone around here notes I'm spending a lot more time in the antique field than with writing at present. Every few years it switches around, and I get more writing gigs than antiquing opportunities. With this amazing outlet to "blog-at-will" it has opened up a lot of doors, not just for me but for many other proficient and talented writers wishing to express themselves without the whining and nattering of publishers....worried about losing ads and readers because of a controversial stand.....the side taken on a political debate.....the impact it might have in social situations. I got pretty sick of the "good time was had by all" approach to journalism, and it pretty much created the conditions for my diminished position at the paper. I haven't been fired yet from this blog site. I'm pretty buzzed about that!
You know it goes back to childhood, this problem with bullies as bosses. Shortly after we arrived in town, moving north from Burlington, Ontario, I was just delighted to receive a warm and welcoming invitation to join the rank and file of the Bracebridge Cubs, and I was working on my first badges of accomplishment. I didn't have my uniform yet but for this one evening get-together, my mother insisted on buying me a brand new dress shirt and church pants as we used to call them....just to look mildly dapper and respective of club standards. We weren't rich folks and I didn't get a lot of new clothes so I was pretty proud of my attire. Mid way through the evening it was recreation time, and we were told the group would be playing British Bulldog....which was pretty dumb considering the number of kids and the small size of the Scout Hall. We'd run back and forth and attempt to avoid being tagged. Some of the touches were a tad heavy I noticed, to the point a few kids were falling into the wall. I was pretty good at the game and lasted until there were only several players left. I made my last foray across and a kid grabbed me by the collar and ripped the whole back out of the shirt. There was even a lengthy red, multi finger claw mark down about six or seven inches on my shoulder. Some of the other lads had similar wounds that needed tending, and outfits showing the rigors of rough play.
I went to the leader and said, "Hey, look what that guy did to my shirt?" "So?," was the limit of his sympathy. "Well, he's going to buy me another shirt," I retorted with a half Irish-Dutch demeanour, dragon-like by any other description. "Buzz off kid," said the leader. What happened next would have impressed that white attired, gun slinging cowboy, "Shane"....although I never hit anyone or pulled a gun.....well sir, I told him about his "skunky" attitude (it was the 1960's), and suggested that he was a pretty poor excuse for a leader......and that yes, he would be dipping into his retirement funds to buy me a new shirt. This isn't intended to discount the good work of the Cub Scout movement, just to suggest that at this time, the leader was a jerk.
My father later let the chap know he should have had more sense that to promote rugby rules in a game of indoor British Bulldog....but I don't think I ever got money for a new shirt. My mother just fixed it the best she could and life went on pretty much as it had before the incident. The Cub leader tried to be my good buddy for the next thirty odd years, especially when he'd try to sell me on writing a promo for his failing business...... but I never forgot that shabby treatment he bestowed on a trusting kid who wanted to be part of a good program.
Guess it sums up my attitude today. There are still certain names from the former publishing business that are not to be spoken in our homestead..... and that's my right. But I don't let it become an entanglement.....in fact, if I do inadvertently think about some of these folks at all, it's because I always write better when I'm madly gnashing my teeth.....I'm a beggar for punishment but it works, it works! You wouldn't believe the huge volume of manuscripts penned in anger. Surprisingly, they don't read as angry and vengeful as I felt at time of penning! I'm suring seeing my byline pop up after all these years drives them nuts. That's all the incentive I need.
We all have our markers from the past that make us cringe, send fear and trembling through our hearts, and yet make us appreciate how far we've come, to become so pleasantly, successfully independent.
When my son Robert, who helps me polish and then publish this blog, asked me bluntly how I feel about blogging versus writing for a publication.....I said "Well, that's easy......liberated." It does take a while to get used to, so for comfort's sake I often write while imagining a former boss hovering over my shoulder, trying to read my copy......to make helpful, "I know better than you," additions and deletions...."to make the story more suitable to our readers." It's kind of like hitting your hand with a hammer because it feels damn good when you stop. And yes, despite what you've just read, I do enjoy my craft and can produce volumes without ever once thinking about the clod who wanted to nurture me like a wee flower.
Thanks for joining me on this most recent blog submission.

The lilacs are blooming -
What a wonderful world
Early in the morning, on the 24th of May, I stopped on the way out of our house to smell the heavy blooms of lilacs hanging over the gravel lane. I looked forward all winter to the day when the melt water would soak down and nurture the roots of these many bushes that we rescued from a family cottage at Windermere, on Lake Rosseau. When we moved to our Gravenhurst home, after a lengthy stay in Windermere, I insisted we bring along as many lilacs as possible, to plant in what was a rather barren front yard. Each spring it is a real treat to see these beautiful trees bring forth such magnificent blooms. I never pass that I don't inhale as much as my lungs and senses can consume.
It was on this day that we received word, from a retirement home in Bracebridge, that my mother was unlikely to survive the morning, and we should come as quickly as possible. I knew they were wrong. When I stopped to admire the lilacs down by the car, I had the clear sense that she had already passed, and that she too had stopped in the abandon of this mortal coil, to take one last smell of heaven on earth. I had a very real feeling she was, for just a moment, standing by my side peacefully enjoying what had been a wonderful life. Merle Currie was in her 86th year. She enjoyed living here in Muskoka, although at first country living seemed to frighten her, particularly the early start and late melt of the winter season. She adored walking and spent hours strolling along the shore of the Muskoka River, and up and down Manitoba Street, so strikingly beautiful at this time of year when the maple leaves unfurl into the early summer sunshine.
I stood there admiring the massive blooms and the sweet aroma, and I know Merle would have agreed at this point, that it was a far better thing to dawdle and celebrate life. Hers was now the recognition and fulfillment of a well spent life, and just as these charming blooms will retire, the tiny individual petals falling to the ground from which it grew, we will always recognize fondly the short but vibrant season of lilacs. When we arrived at the retirement home, Merle had indeed taken her last breath, and when I asked my father when it had happened, it corresponded almost precisely the moment I stood in the shadow of the thriving lilac, feeling the presence of my mother's last earthly moment. Merle always was perceptive and amazingly intuitive. We subtly agreed that it had all been a good mother-son relationship for these 53 odd years, and that it was okay after all the mileage, to just calm everso gently by these flowering shrubs that remind us all of other days and homestead ways.
I knew that my mother was contented following her passing, and that her request was that we cease to grieve and go about our earthly days in good cheer. Death had released her from considerable mortal pain. She was free now. And it was a settling feeling that she had found immediate peace, enjoying these spring lilacs as she always had in life. When I attended to pay my final respects, and saw her tucked into her hospital bed, I thanked God she had been freed universal, to enjoy enternity with the wild abandon of a free spirit.
My mother had been a great source of inspiration to me as a fledgling writer. She had great faith in her son and sometimes I honestly feared she had too much confidence, expecting me to do handstands when I couldn't do a simple push-up. "Of course you can do it Teddy," as she used to call me, much to my chagin....because she often said it front of my burly hockey or football mates. Merle knew I couldn't abide any one who bestowed a half effort on an important project, and she knew how to motivate me when I seemed least inclined. My love of the outdoors probably originated from her pet project to keep me out of the house. Once I had breakfast as a kid, the rest of the day was spent outdoors except in case of monsoon. I may have thought she was cruel a few times, especially when it was raining or on the brink of a winter blizzard but I always found an appropriate shelter, friends that welcomed me into their homes, and offered a few morsels of lunch or dinner to a kid bent on adventure. She just didn't want me sitting around all day watching the television. It worked. My love for the outdoors is directly proportional to the fact I used to hole-up every day, for several hours, in a quaint neighborhood green-belt called, "Bamford's Woods." It was only a few acres of evergreens and a few hardwoods, lots of ferns and critters, and it was just so perfectly suited to the poet in residence. There were so many places to hide-out watching the world unfold. I didn't need friends. I just sat there on an outstretched bough, comtemplating the novel I was going to write one day with this place as a backdrop.
I stopped again this afternoon, to once again admire the huge and magnificent lilac blooms, hanging heavy on the trees that border our lane here at Birch Hollow. And I thought about my dear old mother, who loved the budding spring more than any other time of the year. I feel she's been here already, for that last glimpse of life and family. Hopefully she liked what she saw, what she smelled and experienced here, on the homestead path at Birch Hollow. Truly it is a beautiful life. And she was part of it!