A defender of small town life
When you remark to someone on the local Economic Development Committee that you prefer the small town character, it’s as if you’ve uttered the ultimate offence, stabbing the collective heart of progressive mankind the world over. I do it all the time and I make no apology. And when they grimace in my company, I know I’ve made a positive impact on the city-builders. They won’t be sending me an invitation to any sod-turnings for local development, otherwise known here in Muskoka as run of the mill urban sprawl.
If I’m afforded an opportunity to explain my editorial opinion, which I freely bestow to the land sharks and associated progressives who wish to pave paradise, I explain that to label me “anti development,” is fundamentally in error. I have never opposed any development strategy that was sensible, required in the community, proportional to the projected growth expected, and good for the citizens in general. I do not lump the handiwork of speculators into this mix although there is a fine line of distinction at times. The “if you build it they will come,” speculation isn’t something I endorse, particularly if it involves gouging out the hinterland simply to make big money. There has been a great deal of speculation in our region over the past ten years, and it has resulted in the kind of urban sprawl that does nothing to enhance the well being of a community, but everything to tax existence generally. When a developer decides to plunk down three hundred homes upon the hundreds of others opened in a given year, you won’t find evidence that building is proportional to population increase. It isn’t. Investors and speculators as well as building them, buy them to rent, use seasonally instead of lakefront cottages, and to hold onto in order to flip for a profit down the road. The illusion is that with all the new subdivisions being constructed, our communities are bursting with population increase. When the reality is many of the new homes are for short and long term investments; the inventory belonging to those who own multiple properties and who are simply, and in some cases even patiently awaiting a big pay-off.
Gravenhurst is facing the wrath of speculators; developers who will attempt to change our community to meet their financial objectives. I’m not confident we have the checks and balances to ensure the development we encourage, and accept, will make this a stronger, more dynamic community for residents. We need to make it abundantly clear to developers, particularly from Southern Ontario, that we don’t wish to inherit the urban conundrum of over-development and sprawl just to brag to our neighbor communities….”look what we’ve got!”
We still have a chance in Gravenhurst, to assess what damage urban sprawl has played upon both the future economic well being of Bracebridge, and Huntsville before we whole heartedly adopt the same strategy here. Despite what the movers and shakers of Muskoka might call Gravenhurst’s malady, our stubborn interest to protect our heritage and legacy, our small town, neighborly way of life, is the asset, the mindset I admire the most in my hometown.
The inspiration of a snowy forest, a biographical retrospective and unresolved issues
After weeks of a snow-free Muskoka, and a woodland scene looking more like late April than January, we here in the Ontario hinterland have experienced a few snowy, blustery days, enough to make this Gravenhurst neighborhood look seasonal and postcard “wintery.” I can hear a soothing natural Mozart just by listening to the cold, forceful brush of wind down through the evergreen boughs, onto the dried marsh grasses wavering now in the sudden gusts. I can visualize a Tom Thomson landscape, by the way the barren trees silhouette as legend, against the birch and remnants of receding forest, claimed over by the higher water in The Bog. As I have written as a deep imprint onto every notepad in my possession, I find solace here in this tiny parcel of urban green space. As I continue to entwine myself in the politics and history of Muskoka, as the small “a” activist I’ve sort of become over the past few years, I find myself sojourning a lot these days, as much as to restore my faith as to escape controversy. If I could slip my old canoe into the water at this moment, I would without hesitation….but commitments keep me close to phones and computer.
I broke a promise to my partner Suzanne this week. I had told her that I was giving up my ongoing forays of political agitation with local governance, and settling down to be the modern day Thoreau here at Birch Hollow. Just when I pen poetic for a day or two, some friend or political ally will call or email, and set me on another binge of “Shanesque enterprise.” My favorite all time movie favorite was “Shane,” starring Allen Ladd (have to check spelling of Allen). I’ve always held great affection for those citizens who aren’t afraid to stand up to the bullies out there, whether they happen to be next door neighbors, work mates, bosses, or politicians. My biggest fight these days is with local government only because I’ve finally given up trying to reform the unreformable. On the local level I have some weighty issues, and while I won’t bother the reader with specifics, it’s enough of a task, day to day, to be considered at the very least a part time job. Here’s why.
As a reporter and editor for more than a decade with the Muskoka press, and having been a researcher for my own historical resource business since the early 1990’s, I have a personal and business interest in how our region is being run by its elected officials and related hired help; both at times believing they are immune from scrutiny….or they simply haven’t the time to care who’s watching from the wings. My number one argument, as with most governments in power in this country and abroad, is that we are provided a less than half democracy. I once remarked to a well established political historian that an elderly woman I know had made the rather profound statement to me that, “democracy is the right for us to elect the very next dictator.” I asked him what he thought of this kind of reasoning. He said quite bluntly, “it’s too bad she thinks that way because it’s not true.” And while I respected the man’s reputation and expertise, I never have forgotten the implications of what she had said.
The more I witness of local government these days, her measured, well thought-out statement, has had its merits. I have found numerous local examples of power-questing and indifference to stewardship of town resources, with frightening relevance to dictatorial rule. I have watched democracy, as an illusion, work for the pro side of a local government issue (agenda); for example, the citizenry supporting a town initiative will say democracy is hale and hardy, whereas a group opposing the town will say “democracy is clearly dead.” To understand if there is more than just sour grapes or NIMBY at play (NIMBY being “not in my back yard”), I have immersed myself in several recent situations in South Muskoka that became emotional bombshells. I observed far more than I reacted in-person, because frankly what I was most interested in was the conduct of the folks elected to look after our citizen-rights, our privileges as ratepayers and residents, and our physical resources such as a park for example. What I experienced up close and personal with both sides of the argument was not only dictatorial by hallmark but an unhealthy withdrawl of compassion, sensitivity, and sensibility to those of the citizenry who dare challenge authority.
From the moment I told the cub scout leader I wasn’t going to play the game “British Bull-dog” any more, unless the opponents stopped trying to rip my shirt off, my clashes with authority figures commenced. Geez I was about thirteen years of age. I was told in no uncertain terms that I would have to leave, if I wasn’t going to play along with my team-mates. When he dismissed the fact my shirt had been destroyed and that I should get over myself, he couldn’t have known a free-thinker had arrived. Well, I may have flipped the bird so to speak, and I sure didn’t let the door hit my arse on the way out. My Shane fixations I’m afraid kicked in at an early age, and I’ve had a fair number of scrapes standing up to the bullies of the neighborhood. No matter how many times I’ve been kicked in the slats, I’m apparently too stupid to know my place.
When an elected official begins to act as a dictator, and demonstrates in a crystal clear manner that democracy’s place is a one-off at election time, then it’s time to kick arse around here. And no matter how many new powers the province continues to pour out for the local municipalities to get drunk on, I’ve never given up on the power of right and honesty to win the true privileges of democracy and free speech. If you see my name occasionally attached to a local initiative, a political uprising, an environmental cause or neighborhood action, it’s not because I’m bored as some of my adversaries opine. Rather it’s based on what I believe is a clear abuse of power by people who have taken what they desire of democratic right, and discarded its most critical essence; the appreciation of an individual’s right to fight back against oppression. It’s what my father believed when he signed up to serve in the Canadian Naval Service during the Second World War, and what my father-in-law felt as he was part of the allied parade in the liberation march through Holland, as part of the Canadian infantry. When some self absorbed government official rattles a saber in my direction by golly, threatening my grasp of democracy’s full meaning, a fight for rights is about to unfold.
When I had to fight with my conscience week by week for a pay cheque, I used to come home and night and brood about the personal concessions I was making, and if rent money was worth this prostitution of principle. So I learned how to fight from within for what I believed was important for a journalist despite opinions otherwise. Eventually all that resistance to the orders of the day affected my ability to negotiate for any concession more than “I’ll give you one more chance Currie” to do what expected. It was easier on the conscience to find another way of making rent than feeling like crap because of a few jingly coins in the pocket. That was my democracy. Yup, I could walk away from my fetters. I just couldn’t walk away from my creditors. Funny how well you can do at earning a living, working at a task you adore. If anyone asks what saved me from spontaneous combustion as a writer-in-restraint, it was the antique business I had always enjoyed as a part-time occupation from my first shop in the late 1970’s.
A colleague at a local newspaper asked me one day, shortly after I had come from an editorial meeting, what I was most dedicated to…..editing the paper or tending my antique business. The feeling from staff at the time, was I didn’t have my heart in the job of putting out the paper. In fact, to get my work done for the paper, I was in the habit of rising about 5 a.m. each day, just to get some wiggle room on the article list presented by the publisher. Suzanne can attest to my commitment to the newspaper. I know what my dedication level was, and I didn’t need this staffer’s challenge. I also didn’t feel like giving her a tutorial on the spot, about my dedication to writing. Feeling the glory of free-thought and actions, I said without a moment’s hesitation, “I’m an antique dealer who likes to write!” This was of course, the commencement of my own spiral downward in the staffs’ opinion, and the final exit out the newsroom door. While they undoubtedly thought I’d be crying in my beer, it was quite the opposite, although I did have a beer. My first steps at home were not toward the easy chair but into my favorite woodland for a sojourn amongst everything that was not, by its nature, judgmental. Here I was unshackled and it felt wonderful. I’ve been visiting Muskoka’s sheltering, inspirational woodlands, pastures, meadows and lakesides ever since. It’s indeed a beautiful life.
It is impossible however, to ignore what I believe are travesties occurring in our region. What I don’t involve myself in provincially or nationally, I make up for locally. If I believe that a municipality or the employees on its payroll have taken liberties beyond their mandate, it doesn’t take me too long to rag on them about the protocol they should have followed. Not to be a pain in the ass, although that’s kind of fun, but because rules are in place for the good of life and responsible, honest governance. When the protocol, the rules of operation, are bastardized to suit a personal or group agenda, then it’s time to mount pen to hand, reason to paper (email to). I’m not a caped crusader. Just a grumpy old former editor who believes rights and privileges continually, daily in some cases, need to be protected, and that no one will stifle my right to free speech….at least in this ballywick.
I admit that sometimes my fight, unlike the handiwork of Shane, fails to get the results I had hoped for as a closing argument. I accept this but always feel the effort to bring light to an issue or decision was worth the investment of time. There are political figures in this region who are so tired of seeing my name appearing on letters to the editor or on protest initiatives, they mount defences before I’ve spoken word one. It makes me feel kind of special that they expect an onslaught before I’ve figured out what onslaught to wear, for that particular show of defiance.
Last winter, from January to March, I had a number of missions in support of a local protest to spare Bracebridge’s Jubilee Park, that sent me into these woods twice as much as the aggravation of normal, day to day differences of opinion. I had many self doubts at this point, whether all the fuss was worth it, when illogical thought amongst otherwise accomplished, learned individuals, was being masked by blatant, self serving, narrow minded obsession to achieve an objective. I sat at meetings next to people who had taught me in high school, people who I had looked up to for decades as leaders of the community, who had become indifferent to truth and actuality, and the zombies of false reality. People I trusted for their good judgment had fallen prey to a perceived good idea, like the rabid frothing of a lynch mob, having virtually no capability to see anything from anyone else’s perspective than their own. I fell speechless at many of the meetings I attended simply because I had no verbal way of convincing them that stealing a park from its neighborhood, as speculation on future financial prosperity, wasn’t a logical, sensible, urban planning strategy in our town or any town or city on the good old earth.
This was one of the mission failures that will haunt me for years to come; decades if I live that long. I will always believe it was my failure to work the microphone, and speak aggressively in defence of the park, as did my friends, which cost us the fight. I should have made every attempt, to exhaustion if need be, to instill “questioning” logic upon the stubborn stance of the illogical. Yes, I’ve had to do a lot of soul searching recently, pondering over and over whether the effort to preserve democracy, to save the environment, to help build a more accessible, compassionate community is worth the effort expended…..and it was these healing woods that once again nurtured me back to that stiff upper lip, to as they say, “live to fight another day.”
I have always felt privileged to live in Muskoka. I spent my first few years in the city and when we arrived in Muskoka in 1966, I knew it is the place to spend a lifetime. And I have. My wife and I, with sons Andrew and Robert, routinely spent our vacations in Muskoka. “What did you do that for,” enquired our friends. Why did we need to leave Muskoka to find solace and recreation. In a matter of a short drive, we could be on a sandy lakeshore enjoying a summer swim, or find ourselves in a farmer’s garden, admiring the most beautiful sunflowers on earth. We could wind along beautiful country roads, and enjoy pop stops at local general stores; an opportunity to chat about the weather and stuff with the proprietor, who just happens to love Muskoka just as we do! When I get weary reacting to the latest local initiative to mow down the hinterland for another condo project or golf links, I first of all think about the democratic rights of those who adore condo life and who like to golf. It’s their democracy too. If however, I can find a trace of skullduggery to achieve an end, I make no apology for swinging into action. I’ll meet up with a lot of other Muskoka defenders out there; God bless them for caring, and there isn’t one self proclaimed environmental activist, country philosopher, or citizen advocate for good governance, who doesn’t get his or her strength from the solid principles of what democracy is supposed to be for one and all…..democracy is a weak bastion, and should never be considered a safe haven; especially the opinions of those ill-informed elected representatives who believe the entitlements of officialdom, mean they can get away with misconduct. They should feel quite the opposite that their protection from scrutiny, and continued longevity in office, rests in conduct and integrity alone. The emblem of the subject municipality isn’t the freedom of conduct they mistakenly believe
When you remark to someone on the local Economic Development Committee that you prefer the small town character, it’s as if you’ve uttered the ultimate offence, stabbing the collective heart of progressive mankind the world over. I do it all the time and I make no apology. And when they grimace in my company, I know I’ve made a positive impact on the city-builders. They won’t be sending me an invitation to any sod-turnings for local development, otherwise known here in Muskoka as run of the mill urban sprawl.
If I’m afforded an opportunity to explain my editorial opinion, which I freely bestow to the land sharks and associated progressives who wish to pave paradise, I explain that to label me “anti development,” is fundamentally in error. I have never opposed any development strategy that was sensible, required in the community, proportional to the projected growth expected, and good for the citizens in general. I do not lump the handiwork of speculators into this mix although there is a fine line of distinction at times. The “if you build it they will come,” speculation isn’t something I endorse, particularly if it involves gouging out the hinterland simply to make big money. There has been a great deal of speculation in our region over the past ten years, and it has resulted in the kind of urban sprawl that does nothing to enhance the well being of a community, but everything to tax existence generally. When a developer decides to plunk down three hundred homes upon the hundreds of others opened in a given year, you won’t find evidence that building is proportional to population increase. It isn’t. Investors and speculators as well as building them, buy them to rent, use seasonally instead of lakefront cottages, and to hold onto in order to flip for a profit down the road. The illusion is that with all the new subdivisions being constructed, our communities are bursting with population increase. When the reality is many of the new homes are for short and long term investments; the inventory belonging to those who own multiple properties and who are simply, and in some cases even patiently awaiting a big pay-off.
Gravenhurst is facing the wrath of speculators; developers who will attempt to change our community to meet their financial objectives. I’m not confident we have the checks and balances to ensure the development we encourage, and accept, will make this a stronger, more dynamic community for residents. We need to make it abundantly clear to developers, particularly from Southern Ontario, that we don’t wish to inherit the urban conundrum of over-development and sprawl just to brag to our neighbor communities….”look what we’ve got!”
We still have a chance in Gravenhurst, to assess what damage urban sprawl has played upon both the future economic well being of Bracebridge, and Huntsville before we whole heartedly adopt the same strategy here. Despite what the movers and shakers of Muskoka might call Gravenhurst’s malady, our stubborn interest to protect our heritage and legacy, our small town, neighborly way of life, is the asset, the mindset I admire the most in my hometown.
The inspiration of a snowy forest, a biographical retrospective and unresolved issues
After weeks of a snow-free Muskoka, and a woodland scene looking more like late April than January, we here in the Ontario hinterland have experienced a few snowy, blustery days, enough to make this Gravenhurst neighborhood look seasonal and postcard “wintery.” I can hear a soothing natural Mozart just by listening to the cold, forceful brush of wind down through the evergreen boughs, onto the dried marsh grasses wavering now in the sudden gusts. I can visualize a Tom Thomson landscape, by the way the barren trees silhouette as legend, against the birch and remnants of receding forest, claimed over by the higher water in The Bog. As I have written as a deep imprint onto every notepad in my possession, I find solace here in this tiny parcel of urban green space. As I continue to entwine myself in the politics and history of Muskoka, as the small “a” activist I’ve sort of become over the past few years, I find myself sojourning a lot these days, as much as to restore my faith as to escape controversy. If I could slip my old canoe into the water at this moment, I would without hesitation….but commitments keep me close to phones and computer.
I broke a promise to my partner Suzanne this week. I had told her that I was giving up my ongoing forays of political agitation with local governance, and settling down to be the modern day Thoreau here at Birch Hollow. Just when I pen poetic for a day or two, some friend or political ally will call or email, and set me on another binge of “Shanesque enterprise.” My favorite all time movie favorite was “Shane,” starring Allen Ladd (have to check spelling of Allen). I’ve always held great affection for those citizens who aren’t afraid to stand up to the bullies out there, whether they happen to be next door neighbors, work mates, bosses, or politicians. My biggest fight these days is with local government only because I’ve finally given up trying to reform the unreformable. On the local level I have some weighty issues, and while I won’t bother the reader with specifics, it’s enough of a task, day to day, to be considered at the very least a part time job. Here’s why.
As a reporter and editor for more than a decade with the Muskoka press, and having been a researcher for my own historical resource business since the early 1990’s, I have a personal and business interest in how our region is being run by its elected officials and related hired help; both at times believing they are immune from scrutiny….or they simply haven’t the time to care who’s watching from the wings. My number one argument, as with most governments in power in this country and abroad, is that we are provided a less than half democracy. I once remarked to a well established political historian that an elderly woman I know had made the rather profound statement to me that, “democracy is the right for us to elect the very next dictator.” I asked him what he thought of this kind of reasoning. He said quite bluntly, “it’s too bad she thinks that way because it’s not true.” And while I respected the man’s reputation and expertise, I never have forgotten the implications of what she had said.
The more I witness of local government these days, her measured, well thought-out statement, has had its merits. I have found numerous local examples of power-questing and indifference to stewardship of town resources, with frightening relevance to dictatorial rule. I have watched democracy, as an illusion, work for the pro side of a local government issue (agenda); for example, the citizenry supporting a town initiative will say democracy is hale and hardy, whereas a group opposing the town will say “democracy is clearly dead.” To understand if there is more than just sour grapes or NIMBY at play (NIMBY being “not in my back yard”), I have immersed myself in several recent situations in South Muskoka that became emotional bombshells. I observed far more than I reacted in-person, because frankly what I was most interested in was the conduct of the folks elected to look after our citizen-rights, our privileges as ratepayers and residents, and our physical resources such as a park for example. What I experienced up close and personal with both sides of the argument was not only dictatorial by hallmark but an unhealthy withdrawl of compassion, sensitivity, and sensibility to those of the citizenry who dare challenge authority.
From the moment I told the cub scout leader I wasn’t going to play the game “British Bull-dog” any more, unless the opponents stopped trying to rip my shirt off, my clashes with authority figures commenced. Geez I was about thirteen years of age. I was told in no uncertain terms that I would have to leave, if I wasn’t going to play along with my team-mates. When he dismissed the fact my shirt had been destroyed and that I should get over myself, he couldn’t have known a free-thinker had arrived. Well, I may have flipped the bird so to speak, and I sure didn’t let the door hit my arse on the way out. My Shane fixations I’m afraid kicked in at an early age, and I’ve had a fair number of scrapes standing up to the bullies of the neighborhood. No matter how many times I’ve been kicked in the slats, I’m apparently too stupid to know my place.
When an elected official begins to act as a dictator, and demonstrates in a crystal clear manner that democracy’s place is a one-off at election time, then it’s time to kick arse around here. And no matter how many new powers the province continues to pour out for the local municipalities to get drunk on, I’ve never given up on the power of right and honesty to win the true privileges of democracy and free speech. If you see my name occasionally attached to a local initiative, a political uprising, an environmental cause or neighborhood action, it’s not because I’m bored as some of my adversaries opine. Rather it’s based on what I believe is a clear abuse of power by people who have taken what they desire of democratic right, and discarded its most critical essence; the appreciation of an individual’s right to fight back against oppression. It’s what my father believed when he signed up to serve in the Canadian Naval Service during the Second World War, and what my father-in-law felt as he was part of the allied parade in the liberation march through Holland, as part of the Canadian infantry. When some self absorbed government official rattles a saber in my direction by golly, threatening my grasp of democracy’s full meaning, a fight for rights is about to unfold.
When I had to fight with my conscience week by week for a pay cheque, I used to come home and night and brood about the personal concessions I was making, and if rent money was worth this prostitution of principle. So I learned how to fight from within for what I believed was important for a journalist despite opinions otherwise. Eventually all that resistance to the orders of the day affected my ability to negotiate for any concession more than “I’ll give you one more chance Currie” to do what expected. It was easier on the conscience to find another way of making rent than feeling like crap because of a few jingly coins in the pocket. That was my democracy. Yup, I could walk away from my fetters. I just couldn’t walk away from my creditors. Funny how well you can do at earning a living, working at a task you adore. If anyone asks what saved me from spontaneous combustion as a writer-in-restraint, it was the antique business I had always enjoyed as a part-time occupation from my first shop in the late 1970’s.
A colleague at a local newspaper asked me one day, shortly after I had come from an editorial meeting, what I was most dedicated to…..editing the paper or tending my antique business. The feeling from staff at the time, was I didn’t have my heart in the job of putting out the paper. In fact, to get my work done for the paper, I was in the habit of rising about 5 a.m. each day, just to get some wiggle room on the article list presented by the publisher. Suzanne can attest to my commitment to the newspaper. I know what my dedication level was, and I didn’t need this staffer’s challenge. I also didn’t feel like giving her a tutorial on the spot, about my dedication to writing. Feeling the glory of free-thought and actions, I said without a moment’s hesitation, “I’m an antique dealer who likes to write!” This was of course, the commencement of my own spiral downward in the staffs’ opinion, and the final exit out the newsroom door. While they undoubtedly thought I’d be crying in my beer, it was quite the opposite, although I did have a beer. My first steps at home were not toward the easy chair but into my favorite woodland for a sojourn amongst everything that was not, by its nature, judgmental. Here I was unshackled and it felt wonderful. I’ve been visiting Muskoka’s sheltering, inspirational woodlands, pastures, meadows and lakesides ever since. It’s indeed a beautiful life.
It is impossible however, to ignore what I believe are travesties occurring in our region. What I don’t involve myself in provincially or nationally, I make up for locally. If I believe that a municipality or the employees on its payroll have taken liberties beyond their mandate, it doesn’t take me too long to rag on them about the protocol they should have followed. Not to be a pain in the ass, although that’s kind of fun, but because rules are in place for the good of life and responsible, honest governance. When the protocol, the rules of operation, are bastardized to suit a personal or group agenda, then it’s time to mount pen to hand, reason to paper (email to). I’m not a caped crusader. Just a grumpy old former editor who believes rights and privileges continually, daily in some cases, need to be protected, and that no one will stifle my right to free speech….at least in this ballywick.
I admit that sometimes my fight, unlike the handiwork of Shane, fails to get the results I had hoped for as a closing argument. I accept this but always feel the effort to bring light to an issue or decision was worth the investment of time. There are political figures in this region who are so tired of seeing my name appearing on letters to the editor or on protest initiatives, they mount defences before I’ve spoken word one. It makes me feel kind of special that they expect an onslaught before I’ve figured out what onslaught to wear, for that particular show of defiance.
Last winter, from January to March, I had a number of missions in support of a local protest to spare Bracebridge’s Jubilee Park, that sent me into these woods twice as much as the aggravation of normal, day to day differences of opinion. I had many self doubts at this point, whether all the fuss was worth it, when illogical thought amongst otherwise accomplished, learned individuals, was being masked by blatant, self serving, narrow minded obsession to achieve an objective. I sat at meetings next to people who had taught me in high school, people who I had looked up to for decades as leaders of the community, who had become indifferent to truth and actuality, and the zombies of false reality. People I trusted for their good judgment had fallen prey to a perceived good idea, like the rabid frothing of a lynch mob, having virtually no capability to see anything from anyone else’s perspective than their own. I fell speechless at many of the meetings I attended simply because I had no verbal way of convincing them that stealing a park from its neighborhood, as speculation on future financial prosperity, wasn’t a logical, sensible, urban planning strategy in our town or any town or city on the good old earth.
This was one of the mission failures that will haunt me for years to come; decades if I live that long. I will always believe it was my failure to work the microphone, and speak aggressively in defence of the park, as did my friends, which cost us the fight. I should have made every attempt, to exhaustion if need be, to instill “questioning” logic upon the stubborn stance of the illogical. Yes, I’ve had to do a lot of soul searching recently, pondering over and over whether the effort to preserve democracy, to save the environment, to help build a more accessible, compassionate community is worth the effort expended…..and it was these healing woods that once again nurtured me back to that stiff upper lip, to as they say, “live to fight another day.”
I have always felt privileged to live in Muskoka. I spent my first few years in the city and when we arrived in Muskoka in 1966, I knew it is the place to spend a lifetime. And I have. My wife and I, with sons Andrew and Robert, routinely spent our vacations in Muskoka. “What did you do that for,” enquired our friends. Why did we need to leave Muskoka to find solace and recreation. In a matter of a short drive, we could be on a sandy lakeshore enjoying a summer swim, or find ourselves in a farmer’s garden, admiring the most beautiful sunflowers on earth. We could wind along beautiful country roads, and enjoy pop stops at local general stores; an opportunity to chat about the weather and stuff with the proprietor, who just happens to love Muskoka just as we do! When I get weary reacting to the latest local initiative to mow down the hinterland for another condo project or golf links, I first of all think about the democratic rights of those who adore condo life and who like to golf. It’s their democracy too. If however, I can find a trace of skullduggery to achieve an end, I make no apology for swinging into action. I’ll meet up with a lot of other Muskoka defenders out there; God bless them for caring, and there isn’t one self proclaimed environmental activist, country philosopher, or citizen advocate for good governance, who doesn’t get his or her strength from the solid principles of what democracy is supposed to be for one and all…..democracy is a weak bastion, and should never be considered a safe haven; especially the opinions of those ill-informed elected representatives who believe the entitlements of officialdom, mean they can get away with misconduct. They should feel quite the opposite that their protection from scrutiny, and continued longevity in office, rests in conduct and integrity alone. The emblem of the subject municipality isn’t the freedom of conduct they mistakenly believe
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