A PREAMBLE TO AUTUMN - WHAT A GREAT TIME TO VISIT MUSKOKA
SUZANNE CAN VOUCH FOR THIS. BY THE END OF AUGUST, MY WRITING JAGS DOUBLE AND THEN TRIPLE IN COPY PRODUCED, BY THE TIME WE'VE HAD OUR THANKSGIVING DINNER. EVEN AS A KID, MY MOST PROLIFIC PERIOD OF PLAY INTERTWINED WITH MISCHIEF, CAME DURING THE LATE SUMMER AND INTO THE FALL. I AM THE SAME TODAY, EXCEPT I DON'T OFTEN HIDE FROM HER IN THE TALL GRASSES OF THE BOG, OR PLAY PRACTICAL JOKES ON THE POOR SOUL.....LIKE I USED TO, FOR THE BENEFIT OF MY CHUMS, BACK IN THOSE GOLDEN ADVENTURE-FILLED DAYS, GROWING UP IN BRACEBRIDGE. AS SOON AS I GOT HOME FROM SCHOOL, I WAS OUTSIDE PLAYING WITH MY MATES, UNTIL MY MOTHER MERLE BELLOWED THAT IT WAS TIME FOR SUPPER. I WOULD GOBBLE IT UP, TELL MERLE THERE WAS AN ISSUE OF VITAL IMPORTANCE, AWAITING IN THE BACK YARD, AND THAT I WOULD BE IN BEFORE IT GOT DARK. SHE ALWAYS USED THAT STATEMENT....."I WANT YOU IN BEFORE IT GETS DARK," AS IF THIS WAS THE TIME WHEN MOST CHILDHOOD MISHAPS OR MISADVENTURES OCCURRED......OR THAT SHE REALLY DID BELIEVE IN THE BOOGEY-MAN.....ARRIVING ON THE SCENE AFTER THE SETTING OF THE SUN.
I CHOSE A BUSINESS THAT IS TRADITIONALLY MOST ACTIVE IN THE FALL SEASON. ANTIQUES FLOURISH DURING THE HARVEST SEASON, ESPECIALLY FOLK ART AND VINTAGE PINE. THE COUNTRY KITCHEN AND DECORATING IT, WILL KEEP US BUSY IN OUR GRAVENHURST ANTIQUE SHOP UNTIL AT LEAST THE CRANBERRY FESTIVAL, IN BALA.....WHICH DRAWS THOUSANDS OF PATRONS. BUT IT'S JUST AN ENJOYABLE, HOME ORIENTED TIME OF YEAR, WHEN THERE ARE SOFT HUES OF FLOWERS, AZURE SKY, PUFFY WHITE HORIZON CLOUDS, AND THOSE PAINTED LEAVES OF THE HARDWOODS. IT'S WHAT WE LOOK FORWARD TO ALL YEAR, TRUTH BE KNOWN, BECAUSE COOLER TEMPERATURES AND LESSER NUMBERS OF TRAVELERS, RELAX THE RAPID PACE OF THE SUMMER SEASON.
I SAT DOWN AWHILE AGO, AND LOOKED UP SOME OF THE INSIGHTS I'D WRITTEN PREVIOUSLY, REGARDING WHAT HAUNTS ME ABOUT THE AUTUMN SEASON....FROM THE DAYS OF LATE AUGUST, TO THE FRINGE OF NOVEMBER. I CAN LOOK AT OUTPUT FOR THE YEAR, AT THIS KEYBOARD, AND THE AUTUMN SEASON BRINGS ALMOST THREE TIMES THE QUANTITY....WHICH IS WHY I OFTEN WRITE WELL IN ADVANCE. I HATE BEING UNINSPIRED AND IT DOES HAPPEN, EVEN TO A JOURNEYMAN WRITER, USED TO PRODUCING COPY FOR PUBLICATIONS ON A TIGHT SCHEDULE. WHEN I'M WORKING FOR MYSELF, IT'S A LOT DIFFERENT, AND I NEED MUCH BROADER INSPIRATION, THAN JUST WORKING FOR A PAY CHEQUE. MONEY'S NICE BUT IT HAS NEVER DEFINED ME AS A WRITER.....AS NINETY PERCENT OF MY WORK ISN'T TITHED TO ANY CHEQUE BOOK, OR EMPLOYER. I'M HARD TO SATISFY THIS WAY, AND IT'S WHY I STRIKE WHILE THE IRON'S HOT, SO TO SPEAK, AND WRITE LIKE A MADMAN WHEN ALL CONDITIONS ARE PERFECT. THIS IS MY JOY UPON REACHING THE LATE SUMMER.
THE REMINISCENCE BELOW, IS THE COLORATION OF MY BLACK AND WHITE SOUL. IT IS A RECOLLECTION OF A RICH TIME SPENT, ENJOYING MY YOUTH, BUT BUILDING IT INTO MY CREATIVE FOUNDATION.....LIKE FIR TIMBERS OF A LOG HOUSE, STILL SECURE AND TRUE ALL THESE YEARS LATER.
EVEN WHILE I'M WRITING THESE BLOGS, I'M STILL TRYING TO FIGURE OUT WHAT MAKES ME DESIRE THIS AUTHORDOM THING. SUZANNE ASKED ME THAT, ONE DAY LAST WEEK, WHEN I'D LOST A FILE DUE TO A COMPUTER MALFUNCTION. TEMPORARILY MAD, BUT THAT'S A FLEETING ISSUE FOR ME, I TOLD HER BLUNTLY, THAT I WRITE TO AVOID EXPLODING. LIKE THE TEA KETTLE, I NEED TO LET OFF STEAM....EVEN WHEN THAT STEAM IS NOTHING MORE THAN A CALM, SEPIA TONE MEMORY OF ANOTHER TIME. THE SAME ONES YOU HAVE ON A REGULAR BASIS, ABOUT THOSE PRECIOUS MOMENTS WITH FRIENDS AND FAMILY....WHEN YOU WISHED TIME WOULD NEVER BETRAY THE PERFECTION OF THE MOMENT. THEN WE LOST PEOPLE, AND MOVED ON IN LIFE AND TIMES. LIKE YOU, UNDOUBTEDLY, I CAN GET PRETTY CONFLICTED WITH THESE MEMORIES, AND SOMETIMES I SIMPLY CAN'T HANDLE THEM, AT SOME POIGNANT MOMENT......FOR FEAR THAT I MIGHT WALLOW IN SELF-PITY, THAT THOSE GOOD FOLK ARE ALL DECEASED NOW...AND NOW, MOURNFULLY, IT IS JUST THIS VAPOR MEMORY WAFTING IN MY MIND, PREVAILING TO MEET THE DAUNTING REALITIES OF THE PRESENT.
IT'S WHY I TAKE MY TIME WITH RECOLLECTIONS, AND WHY I AM ALWAYS BRINGING UP NAMES, IN THIS BLOG, OF THOSE PEOPLE WHO HAVE GIVEN ME SUCH INCREDIBLE MEMORIES.....AND WHO HELPED SO MUCH, SHAPE THESE TIMBERS THAT HOLD ME UP ON ANY GIVEN DAY.......AND INSPIRE ME TO REMAIN KEEN TO WHAT ASPECTS OF HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY, HAVE FUELED MY INTERESTS IN CARRYING-ON IN WRITING.....WHEN SO MANY OF MY CONTEMPORARIES HAVE MOVED AWAY FROM THIS CREATIVE ENTERPRISE. MEMORIES LIKE THE ONES PENNED BELOW, PROP ME UP WHEN I'M FEELING LOW, AND LEVEL ME OFF, WHEN I FEEL A LITTLE TOPSY TURVEY......WHICH SEEMS A DAILY EVENT THESE DAYS. POSSIBLY WHEN YOU READ THIS, IT WILL HELP YOU THINK BACK TO YOUR OWN YOUTH, AND WHERE YOU FOUND SOURCES OF ENTERTAINMENT AND EXCITEMENT......AND MOMENTS YOU WISHED YOU HAD PAID MORE ATTENTION TO......BUT DIDN'T. THESE ARE THE TIMES OF OUR LIVES, THAT WON'T INSPIRE MANY HISTORIANS......BUT WILL REMIND THOSE WHO CHERISH THE CREATION OF FAMILY CHRONICLES, TO ADD A FEW NOTES ABOUT EVENTS THEY MAY HAVE MISSED INCLUDING.
SUZANNE IS DRIVING ME CRAZY NOW, AS I TRY TO CONCENTRATE ON THIS INTRODUCTORY EDITORIAL. SHE IS BAKING CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES, FOR THE STORE GANG TOMORROW.....A WEEKLY RITUAL, AND THEN SHE'S PLANNING TO MAKE SOME JAM, AND THEN, VERY SOON, CHILI SAUCE WHICH INTOXICATES ME WITH AROMA. BUT IT IS THE FUEL FOR A WRITING JAG TO END ALL JAGS. THE HOMESTEAD TRADITIONS ARE THE ALIXER FOR ALL THAT AILS ME......AFTER A CRAZY-BUSY SUMMER. HOPE YOU ENJOY THE PIECE BELOW, AND IN SOME WAY, IT INSPIRES YOU TO THINK BACK TO THOSE DAYS WHEN FAMILY MEMBERS BELLOWED FROM THE BACK DOORS OF OUR RESPECTIVE HOME TOWNS......."IT'S TIME FOR SUPPER......COME IN NOW, BEFORE YOU FOOD GETS COLD."
Something enchanted about those autumn nights
By Ted Currie
I think we all have those moments of haunting reminiscence, when we challenge our own memories, pondering if they were truly moments lived, or passages of time found in a book we once read, a movie we remember, or a story told to us by another. Like when you are visiting some place for the first time, and feel a strange aura about a neighborhood or particular building, as if you have had some history there but don't have a clue why or when. A few of us will believe it is some sort of re-incarnation event while others dismiss it as a reference of vague familiarity with someplace else in the universe. A coincidence of emotional attachments playing tricks on the mind, you might say.
When I was growing up on Bracebridge's Hunt's Hill, I felt like that every day. I adamently believed that what I was actually living day to day, was somehow pre-determined, making me strangely aware I was living in the past, one foot in the present, the other back in a history I knew little about. I possessed a curiosity about everything around me, much as the reincarnated believer senses personal history from the realities of a presently encountered scene. The way I would one day look back at this childhood and its minute details, was eeriely similar, such that I knew what I would be writing about, decades before I became even modestly interesting in writing as a profession.
This isn't all that odd but what was peculiar moreso, came with my first few columns in the early 1990's, published in The Muskoka Advance (a weekend newspaper), entitled "Sketches of Historic Bracebridge." It became obvious after the first month of columns that I had indeed been a good watcher as a child, remembering things that would be easy for others to forget. Not historical milestones. Emotional history! Feelings about the environs, the people and circumstances of that 1960's community in rural Ontario. Things that in only a few short years, would change forever in the new era of "progress" and urbanizing ambitions even here in the hinterland.
I seemed to know, even at a young age, that what I enjoyed about small town life must be greedily, and heartily consumed. Observed to the finest detail, celebrated and eventually re-told in the decades to come. I believed the memories of that old, kindly, modest neighborhood, were just as important as all the other milestones recorded in the copious notes of town historians. All relevant characterisitics and accomplishments, if only from a kid's perspective, about what made a town a true "home town," and not just a place to hang a hat.
To a new-age town with city aspirations, it has always been difficult for this historian to clearly and unemotionally explain the importance of this perceived aura of goodwill, and why it must never be dismissed as simple nostalgia. I can't explain it other than to say I had a keen awareness as a youngster about the wonderful attributes of a small town's life and times, and an inner worry about the inevitability heart and soul would have no place in history's blunt, modern day reckoning. Nothing was being done to protect the true accounting of the mortal investment of goodwill, that was then the internal economic, cultural force in day to day existence. At at a time in our world when progress is measured by expansionary evidence, I'm afraid up an coming historians might fail to recognize that our communities of the past were progressive by being cohesive in ambition, neighborly as a rule, vigorous in competition, and sensible in proportion. Being small in stature was no detriment to any of the above.
I can remember so clearly playing hide 'n seek in the early evening hours, hiding in the tall, dry field grasses on the upper slope of land behind the old Weber Apartments, on Alice Street, a working class neighborhood where in every house we had surrogate parents to keep us in line. While hunkered down awaiting detection, I'd sit there thinking about the true joy of this old ballywick here on Hunt's Hill, on Bracebridge's east side, and be quite heartsick realizing that these would be memories only in a few short years, as new development would carve out this hillside for another apartment block. Why was a kid playing hide 'n seek worrying about the fate of good memories in the midst of good fun. I was scared enough that my childhood haunts were going to be compromised, and this splendid old hillside carved away, that I instinctively began recording what had been so important that warranted this historical imprinting on the soul.
It was sitting in these tall grasses, looking down on the lights of the old apartment, in this lessening light of early autumn, being comforted by the wind's gentle caress of nearby evergreens on the slope, and the brushing together of the dry stalks, which colored so nostalgic, the personal vantage point of watching one fondly enjoyed season evolve into another. It was as if this September moodiness itself, was striking the chord of deep affection for all that I had experienced of small town life to that point, reminding me at the same time the leaves would soon be falling, the snow of a Muskoka winter not far beyond. It was the change of season then that seemed so powerful and profound, making sense to me all these decades later, when I re-visit the urban landscape that was once an open field with kids hiding here and there all through the live long day.
While some of my associates used to change spots frequently to avoid detection, I would sit there listening to my world manifest, and be intrigued by the soft steps of my mates passing nearby, the rustle of colored leaves in the upper branches from a stirring autumn breeze, and being sensory stimulated in such a delightful way, by the scent of old season growth, the aroma of a soon-to-be turned-under home garden, and the tantalizing smell of someone's tomato canning wafting out a kitchen window. I could sit there for hours drinking it all in, such that in my lifetime, I would never forget the wonderful nostalgia of growing up in a town that was content to be small.
With a large amount of personal contentment, and many fond hometown memories, I've written about these precious moments for about thirty years now. Indeed it seems to make it all seem relevant that I spent so much time studying a time in the town's own history, because I knew it was on the precarious verge of profound change. I still, after all these years, wander about on autumn nights, celebrating memories of old chums and older haunts, aware of the toll of time and progress, aware moreso that no revisionist will ever be able to haul down or destroy what had been so important about the most basic rights and privileges, afforded a young and impressionable mind. The sincere joy of simple things, a season's change, and mates who never tired of just one more adventure.
Ichabod Crane, Sleepy Hollow and Hallowe'en in Bracebridge
By Ted Currie
As the chill wind of late October rumbles and tumbles away the hardwood leaves, rustling them over the well trodden lanes, and the midnight moon shines ominously through the bare boughs of the old forest, it's quite easy to conger up the wee beasties and assorted ghosts and goblins that thrive in local legend.
Like most kids then and now, Hallowe'en was one of my most fondly anticipated special occasions. Most of my trick or treating exploits, on that haunted October evening, came on the tree-clad neighborhood streets of Bracebridge's Hunt's Hill. It could get quite spooky out there, for those with vivid, seasonally invigorated imaginations, hustling about in the dim lamplight of Front and Alice Streets, up the narrow lane of the Richard Street Hill. Onward along the murky Toronto Street sidewalk, we would arrive at a safe portal, with an unobstructed view down into the haunted valley, where the black, snaking course of the Muskoka River has cut deeply into the rocky landscape. Watching over the citizenry, from its brick tower, as the serpent river wound behind the old town's main street, were the four illuminated faces of the old town clock, casting an eerie glow upon the autumn night. They were like the eyes of Eckleberg made famous in the F. Scott Fitzgerald novel, "The Great Gatsby," letting us know with an almost parental aura, that it was time to head back home again. Enough haunting for one night.
Although it is not widely embraced as being particularly important in Bracebridge, Ontario, none the less it is the kind of historical-literary connection that should be more publicly recognized and celebrated. The town has every right to attach itself to many of the great literary accomplishments of American author Washington Irving. It was Irving's book, "Bracebridge Hall," published in 1822 that inspired Postal Authority William Dawson LeSueur, to borrow the name in 1864, as the legal title of a newly granted federal post office in the pioneer hamlet, in the South Muskoka region of present Ontario. LeSueur, a career civil servant with the federal government, was also a revered literary critic, author and Canadian historian, and when he selected the name "Bracebridge," he did so with the utmost respect for the future of the new town, as much as a recognizable credit to a man he considered was one of the finest writers in history. Irving had died in the late 1850's, and as many of his works were being republished in tribute, LeSueur believed that by borrowing the name from an internationally known book, he was bestowing a great honor in the name of the author, his work, and of course to the people who would make this ballywick their home town.
His shortfall was that he didn't leave a clear written statement which would have clarified why he believed this was a particularly important namesake, and why the good folks of the hamlet should have been pleased by the association. The sticking point after all these decades, I am told, is not simply the title he chose without consultation but the fact he shot down their choice, which by consensus of the few settlers at the time, was to be duly noted forever as "North Falls." LeSueur did not offer an apology for over-ruling the founding settlers' choice.
Now that we know more about Dr. LeSueur, a Canadian Man of Letters, and his positive outlook for a town with an instant literary connection, there has been a slow turn toward recognizing the attributes of the association, particularly at Christmas with local celebration of "Bracebridge Hall" dinners as fundraisers. The book is very much about the traditional fare of an old English Christmas at Squire Bracebridge's peacock-feather adorned "Great Hall." While it is true that a Canadian scholar, LeSueur, chose the name of an American author to secure a town name, the story of Bracebridge Hall itself is about honoring old and still relevant traditions celebrated in England. Most settlers in Bracebridge at that time, circa the 1860's, had only just arrived from England, Ireland and Scotland. Irving, writing in America, was worried the new independent nation was foolishly distancing itself in cultural and historical reckoning, from the "old country" where most Americans, War of Independence or not, had their ancestral roots. LeSueur must have believed roughly the same, as he chose as much to remind townsfolk here, of their blood connection to old England.
Irving's "Bracebridge Hall," was a continuation of the 1818 release of "The Sketch Book," that first mentioned the family of Squire Bracebridge, and the traditions surrounding the old estate and its curious, colorful inmates. In these same Sketch Book stories is of course many with reference to the Haunted Hudson River, Ghost Ships, Rip Van Winkle, and then of course Ichabod Crane and the Headless Horseman, the key components of "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow." This had been one of my favorite pre-Hallowe'en warm-up stories. Although I didn't know the connection, at the time, between my home town and the author of this famous piece of time-honored literature, I most certainly kept watch for the horseman and the flaming pumpkin he might toss at innocent bystanders. If, that is, he couldn't catch the fleet-footed Ichabod Crane. Of course the most recent movie by Tim Burton took some artistic license over the original Irving text but it did bring about a new focus on an old and dear legend of the Hudson River Valley.
Even as a kid, I thought of the Muskoka River Valley as our own version of the spooky Hudson, and on moonlit nights like this, with the autumn leaves rustling over the River Road and the water gurgling along the grassy shore, it was easy to let the mind wander into the realm of spirited possibility. In the dancing swirl of mist off the water, the wash of moonlight and sound of wind in the pines, the trembling voyeur might soon watch the ghost of Ichabod himself manifesting into full flight, with the headless horseman in hot pursuit. I could hear the cadence of hooves on the lane getting closer and closer, and swear I could see the form of horse and rider coming across the valley, defiant of the open water. We could scare ourselves into a gallop home with full linen bags of candy dragging over the ground. By time we made to home sanctuary, and settled to look back at what was coming behind, alas, the only cadence was the thumping of our hearts, the only trail that of candy spilled from holes worn through the pillow cases. But we had made the light of home. There was no way we were going back for that lost candy. We'd pick it up on the way to school.
You won't find much today in Bracebridge, that identifies this historical connection between one of the world's best known authors, and one of the most recognized stories ever told but let me assure you, as the historian who did write the book, it is all very true.....as for the Headless Horseman, beware on nights like this when the moon and mist play tricks on the unsuspecting Hallowe'en traveller.
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