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| We Believe this to be the newly constructed Alhambra United Church in Toronto circa early 1900 |
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| Two of our unknown family keepsakes without names or locations but we have given them our home as their own |
THE IMMERSION INTO HISTORY WASN'T A DELICATE ONE - DIGGING FOR TREASURE IN HOMESTEAD DUMP SITES
"TO HELL WITH THE BEAR - THIS IS MY TORPEDO BOTTLE!"
"THE SHOP I GO TO IN THE CITY HAS......." OR "WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON'T TAKE CREDIT CARDS?" "THAT'S PRETTY STUPID. HOW DO YOU RUN A BUSINESS WITHOUT CREDIT CARDS?" WE HAVE OUR COPING MECHANISM. "WELL, THIS ISN'T THE CITY, AND WE'VE BEEN IN BUSINESS FOR TEN YEARS WITHOUT TAKING CREDIT CARDS." THEN WE CHILL. ADMITTEDLY AND WITHOUT APOLOGY, WE DON'T MEASURE UP TO THE STANDARDS OF SOME OF OUR CITY CUSTOMERS, WHO FIND IT FRUSTRATING, THAT WE DON'T RESPOND IMMEDIATELY, TO A SUDDEN ENQUIRY AT THE SALES DESK. IF SUZANNE IS SEWING ON HER MACHINE, OR KNITTING SOME WOOL SOCKS, BEHIND THE COUNTER, SHE SOMETIMES DOESN'T SEE THE CUSTOMER STANDING IN FRONT. SO WE HAVE A BELL FROM AN OLD HOTEL, THAT YOU CAN RING FOR ASSISTANCE. I DIDN'T SAY SMASH, POUND OR CLOBBER. SOME PATRONS SEEM TO THINK THAT'S WHAT YOU DO, IN ORDER TO MAKE A BELL RING. IF THERE WAS A HAMMER ON THE COUNTER, THEY'D UNDOUBTEDLY USE IT. NOT ALL CITY DWELLERS ARE IMPATIENT, AND JUST BECAUSE YOU'RE A RURAL DWELLER, DOESN'T MEAN YOU'RE PATIENT. AT OUR SHOP, WE INSIST ON PATIENCE. CALL US CRAZY, BUT WE SET THE RULES HERE. WE ARE TOTALLY REFLECTIVE, OF AN OLD TIME, TRADITIONAL, RURAL, WAIT-YOUR-TURN PHILOSOPHY.
IT'S AN OCCUPATIONAL HAZARD, OF RUNNING A SMALL TOWN BUSINESS, AND POSSESSING A COUNTRY PHILOSOPHY; WHILE ALSO, BY CHANCE, WORKING ON A SEWING MACHINE AT THE SAME TIME. ANDREW IS THE SAME, WHEN HE'S FILING DOWN GUITAR FRETS, AT HIS WORK BENCH, IN THE FRONT ROOM. HE WON'T IGNORE YOU, BUT HE HAS TO FIND THE RIGHT PLACE AND MOMENT TO PAUSE. SOME FOLKS DON'T UNDERSTAND THIS, AND FRANKLY, WE FEEL SORRY THAT THEY CAN'T ENJOY THEIR MOMENTARY STAY WITH US; TO INSTEAD DANCE NERVOUSLY AROUND THE SHOP, GETTING ANGRY ABOUT OUR SLOW UP-TAKE ON THEIR SITUATION. WE'VE GOT A DRUM AND IT'S WHAT WE MARCH TO, WITH A SENSIBLE CADENCE.
WE KNOW THEY'RE IMPATIENT, BECAUSE THEY IMMEDIATELY START CLEARING THEIR THROATS, RATTLING THEIR CAR KEYS, AND JIGGLING THE CHANGE IN THEIR COAT OR TROUSER POCKETS. WE GET A KICK OUT OF THIS, BUT IT NEVER RATTLES OUR CONSTITUTION. OUR FAMILY LEARNED ABOUT URBAN EXPECTATIONS IN THE HINTERLAND, WHEN WE MOVED HERE FROM THE CITY, BACK IN THE MID 1960'S. "YOU'RE NOT IN THE CITY NOW," THE GARAGE OWNER TOLD MY FATHER, IN NO UNCERTAIN TERMS, WHEN ED HAD REQUESTED A BOOST FOR OUR CAR. HE WAS TOLD THAT A LOT, IN THE FIRST YEAR WE LIVED IN BRACEBRIDGE. THAT'S HOW LONG IT TOOK TO FIGURE OUT, THAT WE COULD SURVIVE HERE, IF WE COULD FIRST OF ALL, LEARN TO SLOW DOWN, AND REDUCE SOME OF OUR CITY-TAUGHT EXPECTATIONS. WE FEEL SORRY FOR SOME OF OUR CUSTOMERS, WHO WHIP INTO THE SHOP, AND CAN'T SEEM TO SLOW DOWN, TRYING TO TAKE IT ALL IN, WITHIN MINUTES, WHEN IT EVEN TAKES US A HALF HOUR TO SHUT OFF THE LIGHTS, AT THE END OF THE DAY. BUT WE WILL NEVER ASPIRE TO BE A CITY BUSINESS, OR BEAT OURSELVES INTO A FRENZY, TO KEEP PACE WITH OUR CITY CUSTOMERS. IT'S WHY, OF COURSE, WE HAVE EMBRACED LITERARY WORKS LIKE, DAVID GRAYSON'S "ADVENTURES IN CONTENTMENT," AS BEST STATING OUR DESIRES TO BE BOTH IN BUSINESS, AND ENJOY OURSELVES AT THE SAME TIME. IT'S THE WAY WE HUNT AND GATHER ANTIQUES. WE'VE NEVER DONE IT ANY OTHER WAY. WE ENJOY THE TRAVEL ADVENTURES, AS MUCH AS VISITING ANTIQUE AND COLLECTABLE VENUES. CURIOUS TO SOME, WHO RACE FROM VENUE TO VENUE, ON YARD SALE SATURDAYS, THIS IS HOW WE HAVE ALWAYS OPERATED, AND HOW WE INTEND TO CONTINUE. AND WHILE SOME OF OUR CONTEMPORARIES FEEL WE ARE TOO LAID-BACK TO RUN A SUCCESSFUL BUSINESS, WE JUST WINK AT OUR ACCOUNTANT, AND SHE WINKS BACK. WE TEND OUR SHOP, AS WE TENDED OUR CANOE, ON AN ALGONQUIN LAKE; AND DESPITE SOME ROUGH WATER, WE ALWAYS ARRIVED AT OUR DESTINATION.
I WANTED TO BE A WRITER, FROM ABOUT GRADE SIX, WHEN A KINDLY PUBLIC SCHOOL TEACHER, ENCOURAGED HER STUDENTS TO EXPERIMENT WITH THE DYNAMIC OF "THE SHORT STORY." I DIDN'T GET RAVE REVIEWS FOR MY WORK, BUT REGINA BARRETT, A TEACHER, AT BRACEBRIDGE PUBLIC SCHOOL, GAVE ME ENOUGH ENCOURAGEMENT, THAT IT KEPT UP MY INTEREST IN SHORT STORY COMPOSITION. A LOT OF TEACHERS, RIGHT THROUGH HIGH SCHOOL, USED TO TOSS DOWN MY ESSAYS, ONTO THE DESK-TOP, WITH TELL-TALE CHAGRIN, AND AN AUDIBLE SIGH; "YOU COULD HAVE DONE BETTER MR. CURRIE." I'VE HAD A LOT OF PEOPLE SAY THAT TO ME, OVER THE PAST HALF CENTURY, INCLUDING GIRL FRIENDS AND SUZANNE, MY PARTNER. IT WASN'T UNTIL MY FINAL YEAR OF UNIVERSITY, THAT A PROFESSOR FINALLY ACKNOWLEDGED, THAT IF ANYTHING, I HAD AN UNSPECIFIED CAPABILITY TO WRITE ABOUT CURRENT EVENTS. SEEING AS I WANTED TO WRITE SHORT STORIES, AND POSSIBLY EVEN A NOVEL, I DIDN'T REALLY KNOW HOW TO TAKE HIS OVERVIEW. BUT IT DID WORK FOR ME, AS IT STILL DOES. SO WHEN I WORKED AS A REPORTER, CAPTURING ACTUALITY WAS PRETTY IMPORTANT, ESPECIALLY CONSIDERING I COVERED COURT PROCEEDINGS, AND MUNICIPAL COUNCILS. OF COURSE, I ALSO HAD THE UNFORTUNATE OPPORTUNITY, TO REPORT ON ACCIDENTS, FIRES, AND CRIMES. I WASN'T REALLY UP FOR THIS STUFF, BUT IT WAS PART OF THE JOB.
HAVING TO ATTEND ACCIDENT SCENES, ESPECIALLY, WAS SICKENING AND NUMBING AT THE SAME TIME, AND THE ONLY WAY TO DEAL WITH IT, ON THE JOB, WAS TO MAKE COPIOUS NOTES, WHEN I WASN'T TAKING PHOTOGRAPHS. IT ACTUALLY STARTED MY PENCHANT FOR NOTE MAKING, WHICH I STILL DO ON OUR ANTIQUING TRAVELS. I REMEMBER BEING AT AN ACCIDENT SCENE, ON HIGHWAY 69, ON THE "S" CURVE, SOUTH OF MACTIER, AND WRITING SO HARD IN MY NOTE-PAD, BECAUSE OF WHAT WAS HAPPENING AROUND ME, THAT I ACTUALLY IMPRINTED MY OBSERVATIONS EIGHT PAGES DEEP. I COULD CLEARLY READ THE INKLESS IMPRINTS ON PAGE EIGHT. THE FIRE DEPARTMENT FROM MACTIER, WAS TRYING DESPERATELY, TO FREE THE DRIVER OF A CAR, THAT HAD COLLIDED HEAD-ON, INTO A TRANSPORT COMING SOUTH. IT WAS AN INCREDIBLE SCENE, AND HONESTLY, I DON'T KNOW HOW ANYONE SURVIVED. I SAW THE AMBULANCE ATTENDANTS LOOKING AFTER THE DRIVER OF THE TRUCK, WHO SEEMED SHAKEN-UP, BUT NOT INJURED. THERE WAS FIRE BREAKING OUT IN SEVERAL PLACES OF THE VEHICLE CARNAGE. ALL OF A SUDDEN, THERE WAS THE MOST BLOOD CURDLING SCREAM I'D EVER HEARD, COMING FROM THE CAR FURTHER DOWN THE ROAD. "MAKES YOU WANT TO SCREAM ALONG WITH THE GUY, DOESN'T IT," SAID A FIREMAN TO A MATE, AS THEY RAN TOWARD THE CAR WITH HOSES. THE JAWS OF LIFE HAD DONE THE JOB, AND THE MAN WAS FREED FROM BEING PINNED BY THE STEERING WHEEL. HE HAD BECOME CONSCIOUS OF WHAT WAS GOING ON AROUND HIM, AND THE PAIN OF HIS INJURIES, SET OFF THIS TERRIFYING BELLOW, THAT CAUSED ME TO BREAK THE TIP OFF MY PEN. IT WAS MY FIRST MAJOR ACCIDENT AS A REPORTER.
THE DRIVER OF THE CAR, A TRAVELLING SALESMAN, HAD FALLEN ASLEEP AT THE WHEEL, AND CROSSED LANES INTO THE PATH OF THE BIG RIG. IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL SPRING AFTERNOON, WITH FULL SUN, AND A BLOSSOMING HINTERLAND ALL AROUND US. YET HERE WAS THIS HORRIBLE CARNAGE, WITH A DEBRIS FIELD THAT WAS HARD TO BELIEVE. I CAN STILL REMEMBER THE AWFUL SMELL OF BURNING RUBBER AND FUEL, AND THE PICTURE OF THE FIREMEN FRANTICALLY TRYING TO GET THE MAN FROM THE CAR, BEFORE THERE WAS ANY CHANCE OF SPILLED FUEL IGNITING. IT'S NOT LIKE I HAD NEVER EXPERIENCED TRAGEDY BEFORE, BUT THIS TIME, I WAS GOING TO BE THE AUTHOR, WHO WOULD HAVE THE RESPONSIBILITY OF PRESENTING THE STORY TO THE READERSHIP OF OUR PUBLICATION. AND YES, I WANTED TO SCREAM RIGHT ALONG WITH THIS MAN, AND WHEN I GOT BACK TO THE OFFICE, I SAT AT THE TYPEWRITER FOR THE NEXT TWO HOURS, WITHOUT EVEN BEING ABLE TO PRINT MY BYLINE. IT WASN'T UNTIL I TALKED TO SEVERAL OF THE FIREMEN, WHO HAD BEEN AT THE SCENE, THAT I WAS ABLE TO FIGURE OUT A PLACE TO START. I DID SO, USING THEM, AND THEIR ROLE IN THE EMERGENCY, AS AN OPENING COUPLE OF PARAGRAPHS.
WHEN I WORKED FOR THE MUSKOKA LAKES-GEORGIAN BAY BEACON, I DIDN'T HAVE ANY BACK-UP REPORTING STAFF TO EMPLOY, SO I HAD TO COVER NINETY PERCENT OF THE ACCIDENTS AND FIRES MYSELF. I HATED EVERY ONE OF THEM, AND I NEVER GOT USED TO IT; MY KNEES WOBBLING, AND GETTING SICK TO MY STOMACH. SOME OF THE FIRST RESPONDERS GOT A KICK OUT OF ME WRETCHING IN THE BUSHES, OR HAVING TO SIT DOWN AT THE SIDE OF THE ROAD, TO REGAIN MY COMPOSURE. THE ONLY WAY IT GOT BETTER FOR ME, WAS WHEN, AS THE EDITOR OF THE HERALD-GAZETTE, I HAD SEVERAL REPORTERS AND PHOTOGRAPHERS, HUNGRY FOR THIS KIND OF COVERAGE. I'D TRADE THEM FOR MUNICIPAL COUNCIL DUTIES.
ONE OF MY COPING MECHANISMS, WAS TO TAKE-OFF ON FREE WEEKENDS, AND TRAVEL THE ANTIQUE CIRCUIT, FROM FLEA MARKETS, YARD SALES, CHURCH FUNDRAISERS AND AUCTIONS. I FOUND THE MOST RELIEF FROM WORK EXPERIENCES, ATTENDING THOSE WONDERFUL, DAY-LONG, COUNTRY AUCTIONS, AROUND OUR REGION OF ONTARIO. IT WAS IN THIS WAY, THAT I GOT TO KNOW MOST OF THE AUCTIONEERS WHO WORKED THE DISTRICT SALE CIRCUIT. I COULD PUT A WHOLE DAY IN, AT ONE OF THESE ALLURING SALES, AND THEN WRITE ABOUT THE EXPERIENCE, AS A FEATURE, FOR THAT COMING WEEK'S ISSUE. THAT'S WHY I GOT ALONG SO WELL WITH AUCTIONEERS, LIKE LES RUTLEDGE, PETER GREEN AND ART CAMPBELL. I'D GIVE THEM LOTS OF PUBLICITY, BECAUSE I WAS A FIXTURE AT THEIR SALES, RAIN OR SHINE. THEY DIDN'T KNOW IT WAS THERAPY FOR ME. ANTIQUES AND COLLECTABLES HAVE BEEN PLEASING THERAPY FOR ME, RIGHT FROM THE BEGINNING, WHEN MY GIRLFRIEND, GAIL AND I, WOULD TAKE OFF AN AFTERNOON FROM UNIVERSITY, AND FIND OURSELVES; GETTING STRANGE COMFORT, POKING THROUGH THE NEAT, HOLE IN THE WALL ANTIQUE SHOPS, IN SOUTHERN ONTARIO. SO MY CAREER IN ANTIQUES WAS THE RESULT OF STRESS MANAGEMENT. I CAN'T TELL YOU HOW MUCH I BENEFITTED BACK THEN, SPENDING A SPRING SATURDAY, STANDING IN A FARM PASTURE, IN THE SHADOW OF A GREAT OLD MUSKOKA BARN, LISTENING TO THE AUCTIONEER SELL OFF FARM IMPLEMENTS, AND AMAZING PINE PRIMITIVES; AND OH YES, THE INCREDIBLE HARVEST TABLES, OF WHICH I HAVE ALWAYS HAD A SOFT SPOT.
WHAT DEVELOPED THEN, WAS AN INSATIABLE APPETITE FOR OLD HOMESTEADS, DOTTED THROUGH THE LAKELAND. GAIL AND I WOULD DRIVE AROUND, LOOKING FOR ABANDONED FARM HOUSES AND CABINS, AND IF THERE WAS NO ONE AROUND, IT'S TRUE, WE WOULD TRESPASS AS LIGHTLY AS WE COULD. WE WEREN'T THERE TO HARVEST ITEMS FROM THE BUILDINGS, (ALTHOUGH I DID SWIPE DAVID GRAYSON'S BOOK ONCE), BUT RATHER, BECAUSE WE BOTH FOUND THE EXPERIENCE QUITE ENTERTAINING. FOR ME, IT WAS A TAD MORE ETHEREAL, BECAUSE I WAS DREAMING OF THE FORMER INHABITANTS OF THE FARMSTEADS, AND WHAT IT MUST HAVE BEEN LIKE LIVING IN THESE HOLLOWS IN THE LANDSCAPE, AT THE TURN OF THE CENTURY. I NEVER VISITED ONE OF THESE OLD HOMESTEADS, WITHOUT FEELING EXPOSED TO THE SPIRITS OF ITS PAST. IT WAS ALWAYS SAD TO SEE THE HOUSES WIND-UP LIKE THIS, AND WE DID HAVE SENSITIVITY, AND WALKED CAREFULLY, SO AS NOT TO DISTURB ANYTHING MAJOR; AS IF WE HAD ACKNOWLEDGED, EACH IN OUR OWN WAY, THAT WE WERE BEING WATCHED BY GHOSTS. I GARNERED MANY GHOST STORIES FROM THESE FORAYS INTO THE FARMS OF ONCE.
WHEN GAIL AND I WENT OUR SEPARATE WAYS, I DID MISS HER COMPANIONSHIP ON THESE COUNTRYSIDE EXPLORATIONS. AS WE HAD BOTH PLAYED AROUND AS MINOR TREASURE-HUNTERS, I HAD BEEN, OVER TIME AND ADVENTURE, EXPOSED TO THE POSSIBILITIES OF UNCOVERING OLD AND VALUABLE GLASS, FROM HOMESTEAD DUMP SITES. SHE TAUGHT ME HOW TO FIND THEM, AS SHE HAD GONE BOTTLE-DIGGING WITH A FAMILY FRIEND PREVIOUSLY. WE DIDN'T FEEL IT WAS TOO INTRUSIVE TO PICK UP A FEW EARTH-SCENTED, POP AND MEDICINE BOTTLES, FROM THE SURFACE OF A FORMER FARM DUMPSITE. WE ONLY WENT ON PROPERTY WE KNEW WAS PUBLIC DOMAIN, OR WAS AT LEAST OWNED BY PEOPLE WE KNEW. I DID GET A LITTLE CARRIED AWAY, WHEN I WORKED THE DUMPSITES ON MY OWN, IN LATER YEARS, BUT WHEN I COULD GET PERMISSION, BECAUSE OF ACCESSIBILITY, I MOST CERTAINLY DID. WORKING OUTSIDE WAS GREAT FOR ME, AND THE KIND OF CONCENTRATION YOU REQUIRE, TO DIG UP ARTIFACTS, REMOVED ALL THOUGHTS OF THE NEWS WEEK. I WOULD GET SO IMBEDDED IN MY WORK, UNCOVERING THOUSANDS OF POUNDS OF RUSTED TIN AND IRON WORKS, THAT I'D EVEN FORGET THE FACT, THERE WERE BEARS FORAGING NEAR BY. I REMEMBER FINDING A PERFECT AQUA COLORED TORPEDO BOTTLE, (COMING TO A ROUND POINT ON THE BOTTOM), A HOLY GRAIL TO THE BOTTLE HUNTER, AND HEARING THE VIOLENT RUSTLE OF A BEAR IN THE BERRY BUSH ABOUT TWENTY FEET AWAY. I PICKED UP MY SHOVEL AND TORPEDO BOTTLE, AND EXITED THE SCENE, STAGE LEFT. QUICKLY AND QUIETLY.
THE SITES WERE PRETTY EASY TO FIND, BECAUSE THEY COULD BE FOUND, MOST OFTEN, NO FURTHER THAN ABOUT A HUNDRED YARDS FROM THE MAIN HOUSE, AND WAS ALWAYS A FAIRLY RUGGED POCKET OF LANDSCAPE, WITH A ROCK BACKGROUND. I FOUND A LOT OF THESE SITES, JUST LOOKING FOR THE BROKEN GLASS ON THE ROCKS; EVIDENCE THEY SENT THE KIDS OF THE FAMILY, FROM ONE GENERATION, TO THE NEXT, TO TAKE OUT THE TRASH. SO THE BOTTLES WERE PULLED OUT OF THE BOXES, AND TOSSED AT THE ROCKS. WHICH EXPLAINS WHY SO MANY BEAUTIFUL OLD BOTTLES WERE DESTROYED. I COULD FIND THE SITES, AS WELL, BY SENSING THE BURIED TIN UNDERNEATH, WHICH IS PRETTY OBVIOUS WHEN WALKING, PLUS ANY SIGNS OF CAST-OFF IRON WORKS, AND PORTIONS OF FARM MACHINERY. IT WAS FASCINATING WORK, AND FOR THOSE THREE OR FOUR HOURS, DIGGING AND SORTING, I'D FORGET ALL ABOUT WHAT I HAD WITNESSED AT THOSE ACCIDENT AND FIRE SCENES. SO IT WAS REAL CLEAR, THAT I WANTED TO BE A WRITER, BUT I DIDN'T HAVE THE CONSTITUTION TO BE A FRONT-LINE NEWS REPORTER. I NEVER ONCE ADMITTED THIS TO ANY ONE AT THE PAPER, OR MY SUCCESSION OF GIRL FRIENDS, WHO ALSO KNEW MY PENCHANT FOR DIGGING AND TREASURE HUNTING; THEY UNDERSTOOD HOW MUCH PLEASURE I GOT OUT OF HISTORY, AND ITS ACTUALITY, IN THE FIELD OF ANTIQUES AND COLLECTABLES. THEY MIGHT HAVE THOUGHT OF ME AS A WIMP, IF I'D TOLD THEM I WAS SCARED OF ACCIDENT SCENES. BUT I WAS.
SO, TO KEEP MY JOB, I BEGAN COPIOUS WRITING JAGS ABOUT ANTIQUES, AND HOW TO FIND THEM, AS A COPING MECHANISM FOR WHAT HAUNTED ME OTHERWISE. I BECAME A MUCH GREATER ASSET, AS A FEATURE WRITER, THAN AS AN EDITOR, AND GRADUALLY I SHIFTED TO A NEW ROLE AT MUSKOKA PUBLICATIONS, THAT NOT ONLY ALLOWED ME TO WORK AT HOME, (WHERE I LOOKED AFTER OUR LADS), BUT FACILITATED MY INTEREST IN SOCIAL, CULTURAL REPORTING, THROUGHOUT THE DISTRICT. WITHOUT EVER ONCE HAVING TO ADMIT, I NO LONGER WANTED TO COVER CARNAGE ON THE HIGHWAYS, I WAS GIVEN THE JOB OF ASSISTANT EDITOR OF THE MUSKOKA SUN, WHICH IN THE MID TO LATE 1990'S, WAS AN EDITORIAL JEWEL, UNDER THE EDITORSHIP OF REGIONAL HISTORIAN, ROBERT J. BOYER. OUR SON ROBERT, WAS NAMED AFTER MR. BOYER, IN PART, BECAUSE OF THE WAY HE MENTORED ME INTO THE FIELD OF HISTORICAL WRITING. HE ALWAYS HAD TIME FOR ME, AND ONE DAY HE SAID, QUITE OUT OF THE BLUE (WHICH WAS THE BLUE HAZE FROM HIS BIG CIGAR), "I DON'T LIKE USING ACCIDENT PHOTOGRAPHS IN THE PAPER, TED; IT'S A SMALL COMMUNITY, AND SOMETIMES THE PEOPLE IN THOSE CARS, ARE OUR SONS AND DAUGHTERS." WHAT HE WAS SAYING, IN ONLY ONE SENTENCE, WAS THAT HE WAS HAPPY ABOUT MY CHANGE OF PERSPECTIVE; FROM PROFILING THE DEATH AND HEARTBREAK OF ACCIDENTS, TO PROMOTING THE GOOD THINGS ABOUT LIVING AND VISITING MUSKOKA. BOB WAS OLD SCHOOL, IN THE NEWSPAPER BUSINESS. WORKING WITH A NEW PUBLISHER, I'D BEEN PART OF A BOLD NEW TREND, IN WEEKLIES, TO COVER EVERYTHING; WORTS AND ALL. I DID THAT. IT DID BRING US MORE READERS. IT DID INCREASE ADVERTISING. BUT I CAME TO SEE IT AS MORE EXPLOITIVE OF TRAGEDY, THAN SIMPLY THE PUBLIC'S RIGHT TO KNOW. THEY COULD KNOW ABOUT IT, WITHOUT CLOSE-UPS FROM OUR PHOTOGRAPHERS. BOB KNEW I WAS ESCAPING SOMETHING, BUT AS HE WAS MORE CONCERNED ABOUT MY EDITORIAL OUTPUT, WE DIDN'T NEED TO GO ANY FURTHER. HE WOULD OCCASIONALLY COMMENT, IN THOSE DAYS, WHEN I'D COME INTO MY OFFICE, ABOUT THE SPIT-UP ON MY SHOULDER. THAT'S WHEN I USED TO GO OUT ON FEATURE ASSIGNMENTS WITH ANDREW TUCKED INTO A SNUGGLY, AGAINST MY BELLY. TALK ABOUT THE GREATEST MOOD-SETTER A REPORTER COULD HAVE; GOING TO AN INTERVIEW WITH YOUR SON STRAPPED TO YOUR CHEST. THE MORPHING INTO A FEATURE WRITER, WAS THE NEW BEGINNING I HAD BEEN MOST DESIROUS OF....AND IT CAME QUITE BY UNANTICIPATED IMMERSION.....ANTIQUES AS A HOBBY, THAT GREW TO BECOME A MAINSTAY.
EVEN THOUGH I WAS LIVING IN WHAT WE LIKED TO CALL GOD'S COUNTRY, I STILL, IN MANY WAYS, WAS LIVING A HIGH STRESS URBAN LIFESTYLE. I WAS A MUSEUM MANAGER, A FREQUENT REPORTER FOR CHAY FM, IN BARRIE, WORKING ON A PROVINCIALLY FUNDED HERITAGE PROJECT IN MY SPARE TIME, AND LOOKING AFTER ANDREW; THEN CAME ROBERT. AT THE SAME TIME, WE WERE RUNNING A SMALL IN-HOUSE ANTIQUE SHOP. MY DAVID GRAYSON BOOK, THAT I WROTE ABOUT IN YESTERDAY'S BLOG, GOT A HUGE WORK OUT. SO MUCH IN FACT, THAT I USED IT AS A SOURCE, FOR MANY MUSKOKA SUN FEATURE ARTICLES. IF I WAS WRITING ABOUT SOMETHING RURAL, TRADITIONAL, A COUNTRY LIFESTYLE, OR HISTORIC, I COULD ALWAYS FIND A WAY OF STUFFING IN, A LITTLE BIT OF GRAYSON'S "ADVENTURES IN CONTENTMENT." IT HAS BECOME AN EDITORIAL CRUTCH. AND WHEN DOWN IN THE DUMPS, IT HAS BEEN THE ONE BOOK I TURN TO, IN ORDER TO RE-SET PRIORITIES. HERE NOW, IS A LITTLE MORE, FROM ONE OF MY FAVORITE "OLD" BOOKS.
BACK TO THE LAND? WHAT FOR? CLOSER TO GOD? OR JUST TO ESCAPE THE URBAN TRAPPINGS!
Journalist Ray Stannard Baker, of Michigan, used the pen name, David Grayson, when he wrote "Adventures in Contentment," first published in 1909. It was an early "back to nature," "back to the country" book, somewhat in the spirit of Thoreau, at Walden Pond, but more spiritual in context, of the relationship with rural realities. It was a book that was well received, and probably did convince many people to return to a simpler existence, and retreat to the rural climes. Keep in mind, this was referring to the urban lifestyle stresses of the early post Victorian period. How shall we embrace Baker's words today, in this new century? Do we concur, that modern day pressures are still beating us down? Denying us our enjoyment of peace, and even the tiniest vestige of solitude? Are we in need of a more natural existence with simple pleasures; enjoying a sunset, laying in a spring pasture, sitting by a babbling brook, having a picnic at lakeshore, and watching, in silence, the setting of the sun over the pine forest? Well, it's why people have been escaping to Muskoka since the 1870's for rest and relaxation. The problem for many local residents, is that we're often forced by circumstance, to live urban-style lives, even in the midst of what should be, a tranquil, restorative, healthful paradise. So we need our escapes as well. In a pinch, I just choose my beaten-up copy of "Adventures in Contentment." Now I keep it at the shop.
"For a time, in the new (rural) life, (having left the city behind), I was happy to drunkenness - working, eating, sleeping. I was an animal again, let out to run in green pastures. I was glad of the sunrise and the sunset. I was glad at noon. It delighted me when my muscles ached with work and when, after supper, I could not keep my eyes open for sheer weariness. And sometimes I was awakened in the night out of a sound sleep - seemingly by the very silence - and lay in a sort of bodily comfort impossible to describe. I did not want to feel or to thing; I merely wanted to live. In the sun or the rain, I wanted to go out and come in, and never again know the pain of the unquiet spirit. I looked forward to an awakening not without dread, for we are as helpless before birth as in the presence of death."
Grayson writes, "But like all birth, it came, at last, suddenly. All that summer I had worked in a sort of animal content. Autumn had now come, late autumn, with coolness in the evening air. I was ploughing in my upper field - not then mine in fact, and it was soft afternoon, with the earth turning up moist and fragrant. I had been walking the furrows all day long. I had taken note, as though my life depended on it, of the occasional stones or roots in my field, I made sure of the adjustment of the harness. I drove with peculiar care to save the horses. With such simple details of the work in hand, I had found it may joy to occupy my mind. Up to that moment, the most important things in the world had seemed a straight furrow, and well-turned corners - to me, then a profound accomplishment.
"I stopped there in my field, and looked up. And it was as if I had never looked up before. I discovered another world. It had been there before, for long and long, but I had never seen nor felt it. All discoveries are made in that way; a man finds the new thing, not in nature but in himself. It was as though concerned with plough and harness and furrow, I had never known that the world had height or colour, or sweet sounds, or that there was feeling in a hillside. I forgot myself, or where I was. I stood a long time motionless. My dominate feeling, if I can at all express it, was of a strange new friendliness, a warmth, as though these hills, this field about me, the woods, had suddenly spoken to me and caressed me. It was as though I had been accepted in membership, as though I was now recognized, after long trial, as belonging here."
Grayson pens, the following, about his surroundings, re-discovered on this day; "Across the town road which separates my farm, from my nearest neighbor's, I saw a field, familiar, yet strangely new and unfamiliar, lying; up to the setting sun, all red with autumn; above it the incalcuable heights of the sky, blue, but not quite clear, owing to the Indian summer haze. I cannot convey the sweetness and softness of that landscape, the airiness of it, the mystery of it, as it came to me at that moment. It was as though, looking at an acquaintance long known, I should discover that I loved him. As I stood there I was conscious of the cool tang of burning leaves and brush heaps, the lazy smoke of which floated down the long valley and found me in my field, and finally I heard, as though the sounds were then made for the first time, all the vague murmurs of the countryside - a cowbell somewhere in the distance, the creak of a wagon, the blurred evening hum of birds, insects, frogs. So much it means for a man to stop and look up from his task. So I stood, and I looked up and down with a glow and a thrill which I cannot now look back upon, without some envy and a little amusement, at the very grandness and seriousness of it all. And I said aloud to myself. 'I will be as broad as the earth. I will not be limited.' Thus I was born into the present world, and here I continue, not knowing what other world I may yet achieve. I do not know, but I wait in expectancy, keeping my furrows straight and my corners well turned. Since that day in the field, though my fences include no more acres, and I still plough my own fields, my real domain has expanded until I crop wide fields, and take the profit of many curious pastures. From my farm, I can see most of the world; and if I wait here long enough all people will pass this way."
"And I look out upon them, not in the surroundings which they have chosen for themselves, but from the vantage ground of my familiar world. The symbols which meant so much in cities, mean little here. Sometimes it seems to me as though I saw men naked. They come and stand beside my oak, and the oak passes solemn judgement; they tread my furrows, and the clods give them silent evidence; they touch the green blades of my corn, the corn whispers its sure conclusions. Stern judgements that will be deceived by no symbols. Thus I have delighted, secretly, in calling myself an unlimited farmer, and I make this confession, in answer to the inner and truthful demand of the soul that we are not, after all, the slaves of things, whether corn, or bank notes, or spindles; that we not be the used, but the users; that life is more than profit and loss. And so I shall expect that while I am talking farm, some of you may be thinking dry goods, banking, literature, carpentry, or what not. But if you can say: I am an unlimited dry goods merchant, I am an unlimited carpenter. I will give you an old-fashioned, country handshake, strong and warm. We are friends; our orbits coincide."
Grayson concludes, "Sometimes I say to myself; I have grasped happiness! I have it! And yet, it always seems at that moment of complete fulfillment, as though my hand trembled, that I might not take it!"
I wake up in the middle of the night, and then when I arise, the first glance I take, upon getting my bearings, is out the bedroom window, onto the sparkling snowy landscape here at Birch Hollow. I love the way the moonlight reflects off the snowy crust, when it's well below zero. When I sit in my chair, watching the morning news, I can see the birds at the feeder, anchored to the verandah railing. Everything around this place, connects the inmate to the nature around us. The Bog. Today it was a truly magnificent scene, in the full light of early afternoon. It was healing for the weary soul. It was indeed, a long winter. But it was nature doing what it is supposed to do....in the fulfillment of the seasons of the year. I think Grayson might have enjoyed this scene as well.
If it seems we're full to over-flowing, with a "too-sweet" ideology, and feel that we're burdensome with our old fashioned cliches, then excuse me for then hoping, you will, at the very least, find our antique shop, to be strangely inviting, all told.
Thanks so much for joining today's blog. Take time to enjoy the amazing scenery that embraces us here in Muskoka. Spring is coming. Time changes this weekend. Longer light in the evenings. I can hardly wait to see the first buds on our front yard lilacs.
MY ADVENTURES GOT ME IN A LOT OF TROUBLE - BUT IT WAS WORTH IT
I WATCHED THE HISTORY OF A SMALL TOWN COME AND GO!
ALL MY TEACHERS, ALL THE NEIGHBORS ON ALICE STREET, MY HOCKEY AND BASEBALL BUDDIES, AND MEMBERS OF THE HUNT'S HILL GANG, WOULD HAVE, AND MAY HAVE LAUGHED IN MY MOTHER'S FACE, IF SHE HAD SAID, IN MY DEFENSE REGARDING SOME MISDEMEANOR, "OH, TEDDY IS SUCH A SHY, GENTLE CHILD." THEY KNEW BETTER. I MIGHT HAVE GIVEN THAT IMPRESSION AT HOME, BUT ONCE POUNDING THE BEAT, I WAS ANYTHING BUT SHY OR GENTLE ABOUT ANYTHING. I JUST WAS A LITTLE FASTER, SLIGHTLY LESS VISIBLE, AND MORE STRATEGIC WHEN IT CAME TO MESSING-ABOUT. WHEN I WANTED SOMETHING, I WAS PARTICULARLY PERSUASIVE, AND I'D KEEP NATTERING ABOUT IT, AND LOOKING FOR LOOPHOLES, TO REACH A PARTICULAR OBJECTIVE. IF I SWIPED A PIE COOLING ON A WINDOW LEDGE, I COULD HAVE IT CONSUMED AND ENJOYED BEFORE MY PARTNERS HAD LEFT THE CRIME SCENE. THEY ALWAYS GOT CAUGHT. MY MOTHER MIGHT HAVE QUESTIONED THE BLUEBERRY STAIN ON MY SHIRT, BUT I COULD FOB THAT OFF BY SUGGESTING IT WAS A ROGUE BLACKBALL THAT FELL OUT OF MY MOUTH…..HITTING MY SHIRT, AND ROLLING ALL THE WAY DOWN TO MY WHITE RUNNING SHOES…..WHERE A BLUEBERRY CHUNK HAD ALSO HIT. I USED TO GRAB RIPE TOMATOES OFF THE VINE BUT NOT TO EAT. LET'S JUST SAY SOMEONE I DIDN'T LIKE, GOT A BIG WET SURPRISE IN THE MIDDLE OF THEIR BACK. I WAS A BAD BUGGER AND A MILLION MILES FROM BEING SHY ABOUT ANYTHING.
I COULD BE TOLD A THOUSAND TIMES, NOT TO THROW LITTLE GREEN APPLES AT THE HOUSES IN OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. I DON'T KNOW WHAT IT WAS ABOUT THOSE APPLES. YOU COULDN'T EAT ALL YOU PICKED, BECAUSE THE STOMACH ACHE WOULD DOUBLE-YOU-UP IN PAIN. THEN THERE WERE THE MAD DASHES FOR THE WASHROOMS, WITH CLENCHED BUTT CHEEKS. SOMETIMES YOU JUST DISEMBARKED THE BIKES IN FLIGHT, THE PAIN AND URGENCY CAME ON SO FAST.
SO INSTEAD OF WASTING THE REMAINDER, OF THE LITTLE GREEN APPLES (WORMS WERE A BONUS) WELL SIR, THOSE TIN ROOVES ON SOME OF THE OLDER NEIGHBORHOOD HOUSES, RATTLED BEAUTIFULLY WITH A BARRAGE OF APPLES FROM THREE OR FOUR ASSAILANTS. THE FOLKS WOULD COME RUNNING OUT OF THEIR HOUSES THINKING IT WAS A METEOR SHOWER HITTING EARTH. GREEN APPLES MADE US CRAZY. I DON'T KNOW HOW MANY TIMES WE GOT CAUGHT UP SOMEONE'S TREES, SCOFFING THE FRUIT OFF THE VINE. ONE OLD GIRL HAD A LONG POLE SHE USED TO KNOCK THE APPLES DOWN, TO MAKE JELLY, AND THAT WORKED ON KIDS AS WELL. I CAME AROUND THE CORNER, ON RICHARD STREET ONE MORNING, AND SAW HER STANDING THERE WHACKING THE TREE, OVER AND OVER AGAIN, WITH THE LONG STICK. THESE APPLES HOWEVER, WERE YELLING "HELP." SHE HAD FOUND ONE OF MY CHUMS UP THE TREE AND WAS BEATING HIS BEHIND AS HE DARTED FROM BRANCH TO BRANCH. I WAS ABLE TO DISTRACT HER LONG ENOUGH SO HE COULD JUMP DOWN, AND MAKE A RUN FOR IT. CRIPES SHE CHASED HIM FOR ABOUT A BLOCK. I HAD MY BIKE SO I SPED OFF. SHE WAS PRETTY TICKED OFF. WE ONLY VISITED HER TREE AFTER THAT, DURING AFTER SUNSET, AS HER VISION WASN'T ALL THAT GOOD. SHE'D JUST THINK IT WAS RACOONS OR SOMETHING, AND CURSE OUT THE WINDOW WHEN SHE HEARD THE LEAVES RUSTLING. WE JUST MADE RACOON SOUNDS TO KEEP HER HAPPY.
THE POINT IS, AT THIS TIME OF MY LIFE, THAT I DO LOVE TO RECALL, I WAS NEVER SHY ABOUT OPPORTUNITY. I WANTED TO EXPERIENCE THINGS, GO PLACES, UNDERSTAND WHAT WAS GOING ON AROUND ME. I WANTED TO LEARN BY IMMERSION, AND YOU KNOW, IT MOST CERTAINLY WAS WHAT LED TO MY FASCINATION TODAY, WITH THE EVER-DYNAMIC REALM OF "THE NOSTALGIC." IT WAS MY WORLD. I PLAYED WITH THIS STUFF, LIVED AMONGST IT, PAID ATTENTION TO ITS INTEGRITY THEN, AND KNEW THAT ONE DAY, IT WAS GOING TO BE RETIRED AND REMOVED FROM MY DAY TO DAY ADVENTURES. LIKE THE VINTAGE GAS PUMPS AT ALL THE LOCAL SERVICE CENTRES IN THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE. THEY WERE NOSTALGIA IN THE 1960'S, BECAUSE THEY WERE PROBABLY TWENTY OR MORE YEARS OLD AT THE TIME. AS MY PARENTS TRAVELLED ALOT, I STUDIED THE PUMPS AT GAS STATIONS ALL THE WAY TO AND FROM FLORIDA, NUMEROUS TIMES, AND I KNEW WHAT WAS BEING USED AT HOME WAS LONG PAST PRIME FOR THE MODERN-ERA GAS STATIONS. WELL, THEY WEREN'T MODERN BUILDINGS AND THE PUMPS SUITED THE BUILDINGS PERFECTLY.
My two best buddies, Al "Weasel" Hillman, and his brother Rick, used to take me into the murky, gas and oil scented inner sanctum of Bracebridge's Downtown Garage, across from Muskoka Trading. The garage was run by their father, Seth, and his partner Art Crockford, two of the most interesting chaps a young lad could chat with on a slow Saturday afternoon. We'd drop in and see them if we had a particular need for a go-cart axle or wheels, and honestly, we'd try to stay in there as long as possible….because it was a fabulous treat for the senses; even though it was in the late 1960's, the automotive repair shop was right out of the 1930's 40's. The long counter was covered with "geasy-fingered" service manuals, and the old oak cupboards behind, were loaded with thousands of tins and boxes, and off the top hooks, were fan belts and wiring and rubber seals and many odd chains. I loved standing on the edge of the grease pit, looking down into the place where the mechanics performed their delicate surgeries. The place was always dark, except for these trouble lights, three or four illuminated, hanging near the service area, with only several overhead lights switched on……which meant you had to spend some time in the dark to allow your eyes to adjust. We watched all kinds of repairs being made, but if it got busy Seth ushered us back out into the open air. You know, if someone told you that they found the scent of oil, grease and gas kind of alluring……almost a cologne they'd be attracted to, I'd know exactly what they were talking about. I'm the most non-mechanical person to ever write about loving the interior ambience, and permeating aroma of an old-time garage. It dates back to those brief forays into the Downtown Garage to see what Seth and Art were up to. We'd sometimes just stand at the counter and listen to them spin yards with other garage hangers-on, who had no particular place to be….or go, and the conversation was always hale and hardy, and the politics conservative. I found the garage fascinating, just as I felt about the people who worked there.
I can remember being out for a drive with my parents one night, and coming around the corner of Manitoba Street, onto what was then known as Thomas Street (corner of the Patterson Hotel), and seeing the local garage gang, sitting beside the gas pumps, with their chairs balanced on two legs, and their backs up against the wall. Now an oddity of this gas station, is that it was on an angle that put one corner of it precariously close to the road that wound down the hillside. The pump sat as close to the tarmac as you could get without actually being on the travelled portion of the roadway. When a car pulled off the road to get gas, it was still pretty much on the road. So the old-timers, as they had been doing for decades, would sit out front, in their tipped back chairs, waiting for end-of-the-day customers to pull off "part of the road" for a few gallons of gas. My dad said, "I bet they hate it when someone comes to get gas…..and disturbs them." He also added, "Another tough day for these guys," meaning that he assumed they did this pretty much the whole day…..which just wasn't true. I said that, and my mother was aghast. "I've told you to stay away from that place," she said. "You could get hurt in there…..God knows what they might have laying around you could cut yourself on." Geez, I could cut myself in our own apartment, and I did so many times. The Downtown Garage was an entirely safe place for a kid to watch and learn, and both Seth and Art were both sensible in a professional capacity, and fatherly to us stray kids, looking in wonder at what automobile mechanics was all about. They both had a lot of experience to share, and you know, I never remember them raising their voices once, to smarten us up, about something we were touching or a place in the shop we weren't supposed to be visiting. Sure there were sage warnings but they didn't chase us out of the shop with any exotic fear mongering, about the danger of putting our eyes out, or getting cut on the jagged metal that was piled about. They never once told us not to get grease on our clothes. I respected that, and as I knew how angry Merle would have been, if I'd come home wearing a black smear on my pants, I just watched where I walked and stood, so I wouldn't have to explain a single thing about my whereabouts…..to my own Sherlock Holmes. Tell you what. I never, ever left the Downtown Garage, that I hadn't learned something or other about automobiles, and what can break down, and can be repaired…..and what repair has to be improvised. Bet you don't hear about that too much in this day of computer technology dictating everything about repairs except when to go to the bathroom, or have lunch. These old-timers made lots of parts, to help in a crunch, get these customers mobile again. They were alchemists of their industry. This was the kind of classroom I wanted to be in…..not because I planned to be a mechanic in later years…..but because it fascinated me, and compelled me to learn things I otherwise would never have been exposed. My mother wouldn't allow me to take a shop class at school for fear I'd cut my hand off. So I became a writer /historian, and I still cut myself on can lids and pieces of paper. But at least I got a chance to see what it was like in the automobile repair business of the 1960's and 70's, thanks to Rick and Al, and of course Seth and Art, to find gents of gas station legend and lore.
When I'm traveling about the antique circuit, and pop into shops that have automobile and service station memorabilia, I always pause for a few moments, and think back to the days Al, Rick, Don (another chum) and I, had the privilege of hanging-out amidst motor vehicle history. It might not have been called a museum, but it was in fact, a place that should have been frozen in time……or at least when Art and Seth sold it off, preserved for posterity. It's a Hock Shop today, and I can't pass through that door, without re-visiting those tantalizing visuals and scents of automotive heritage. I still come around that same corner, as I did with my father, and wonder, if those three old timers that I used to see, sitting beside the gas pump(s), are still there……in spirit-form, leaning back in their chair against the building, watching the mortal world of this new century, pass by. I know they're still there, so I wave each time I go by…..no fooling.
I'm glad I wasn't so shy as a youngster, as my mother supposed, that I missed these opportunities to visit the industries and shops that operated in our town, back in the mid 1960's onward, because it was all about to change so dramatically even before I hit twenty……and I think I witnessed, up close and personal, those wind-up years where progress and urban renewal became the nostalgia lovers' nightmare. I was afforded a rare adventure in these places, including many visits to the Uptown Garage operated by Ted Smith, on the top of Manitoba Street's, "Queen's Hill," to visit my school mate Ross "Hoss" Smith (Ted's son), who was the service centre gas jockey. He'd pump your gas, sell you a chocolate bar, clean your windows, take your payment, and say "thank you very much," when you complimented the landscape painting, he was working on in the lobby. We also had a painting pharmacist, and a barber artist in our town at the same time. But you won't find that in any history book…..unless I write it…..and I haven't yet.
I do regret one thing about our dealings with Seth Hillman. If we came into the garage looking for old wheels and axles, it was undoubtedly for our go-cart we were constructing. If we didn't find what we needed to scavenge, at the Downtown Garage, dollars to donuts we knew where else to look. I can't tell you how many times Seth came home at night, and when planning to cut the lawn on their Toronto Street property, found his mower to be missing its wheels. He'd just come out of that garage shaking his head, mumbling about "damned kids," and never say another word. We probably got four of his old mowers the same way, and this isn't to suggest Rick and Al didn't get scolded about the wheel-removals, but he never said a cross word as long as I knew the man. God knows he put up with a lot of kid interventions. I don't think he was too happy when we got a hold of some of this cherished dandelion wine, in the basement, and had a wee party of our own. Teddy Currie shy? I don't think so. If it wasn't bolted to the floor, it was finders keepers. Hey, it worked the same in our house, as long as Merle and Ed weren't in at the time. We didn't have a lawnmower to scavenge from anyway. We just raided the fridge for those happenstance sandwiches to give us strength to carry on our neighborhood mischief.
Pictured above are two interesting limited edition prints we purchased, while out on the antique hunt yesterday. One is from the early 1960's and the other is from 1958…..usually good investment pieces, and most often found for a good price. Found two small paintings today but no Tom Thomson landscapes. Darn it all!
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